


FictoberLock 2018

by FinAmour, unicornpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alley kissing, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autumn, Bees, Black Cats, Board Games, Boys In Love, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fictober, Fictober 2018, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, Garridebs moment, Gay Weddings, HLV fix-it, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injured Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, John and Sherlock are in cahoots against Mary, John dresses as David Bowie, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Bites, Love Confessions, M/M, Mildly Cracky, Parentlock, Pining, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, Protective John, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach letters, Retirementlock, Reunions, Ridiculous and long-winded metaphors, Sci-Fi Elements, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock dresses as James Bond, Sherlock dresses up for a case, Sherlock is a pretty alien, Single Parent John Watson, Smitten John Watson, Smitten Sherlock, Snogging, So much imagery that it's basically a photo album, Soft Sherlock and John, Soft Soft Soft Bois In Love, Spin the Bottle, Stand-alone Ficlets, TSOT Fix-it, Texting, Train Stations, Tumblr Prompt, Unilock, Vamplock (sorta), Were-John (sorta), Wow they’re in love, and John is his overly enthusiastic patron, clubs, sherlock is a fortune teller, so so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 60,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: 31 different prompts, 31 Johnlock fics: one every day for the month of October!Each chapter is a stand-alone story. Some are written by unicornpoe, some by FinAmour, and some are written by us both! They range in length from ~500 words to ~3500 words, and there’s something in here for everyone.Enjoy the softness of these two bois in love.***This work is now complete!





	1. Can You Feel This?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chocolamousse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolamousse/gifts), [fictionallemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/gifts), [Smmink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smmink/gifts).



> The name of each prompt is the title of the chapter. You can see the entire list [here!](http://fin-amour.tumblr.com/post/178498544008/barbex-a-list-of-prompts-for-october-write)
> 
> After all is said and done, we have decided to gift this work to our three most loyal readers and commenters. Each and every day, we’d post a chapter and hear from you guys shortly after. Thank you so much for your support. And special thanks to Chocolamousse for letting us know when we forgot how to use proper English ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock falls from a ladder while hanging Halloween decorations; John is a very good doctor.
> 
> ***  
>  _Sherlock pulls away, pressing his hand over John’s heart, and Sherlock can feel it. Thundering. Like his own._
> 
> _Silence._
> 
> _“Can you feel this, John?” he asks. “That is to say—each and every little thing that I am feeling for you right now—can you feel it, too?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 Prompt: “Can You Feel This?”
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour ❤️

“Sherlock. Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open.

_Where am I?_

”Sherlock.”

_Pain. Head spinning._

“Sherlock!”

_Blurriness. Focus. Focus. Focus._

”John?”

Baker Street.

Cerulean eyes, John’s eyes—panicking. Filled with worry and sadness.

_Dizzy. Everything hurts._

“Sherlock, listen to me. I think you may have fallen from this ladder while you were hanging the Halloween decorations, and I—I need you not to move right now.”

_John. Why are you sad?_

“Sherlock! Can you do that for me?”

_Throat so dry._

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to make sure you haven’t injured your spine. So I’ll need you to tell me if you can feel where I’m touching you.”

_Touching me._

“Alright.”

“Can you feel this?” John’s fingers wrap around Sherlock’s toes and squeeze.

“Yes. I feel a light pressure on my metatarsals.”

“Good.” Another squeeze. “And this?”

“Extensor digitorum. Cruciate ligament. Tibius anterior. Peroneus longus.”

“Good. Good, yes, good.”

John takes Sherlock’s hands into his—they are warm, and callused, and strong, as one set of fingers folds fully around the other.

“Sherlock. Give my hand a squeeze back, yeah?”

Their eyes meet again. John gives Sherlock a look of encouragement, but his expression is still sad.

_I’m okay, John. Will that knowledge help you stop being sad?_

Sherlock grips onto John’s hands. Firm. Not letting go. Not ever, if he had the choice.

John smiles.

_Finally._

“Okay, Sherlock. I’m going to try sitting you upright. Slowly, now. Tell me if it starts to hurt.”

_Kind, caring, brave, beautiful John._

_Smiling down at me because I’m fine._

“Alright.”

John’s arms wrap around Sherlock’s upper body.

Safe. Secure.

As Sherlock rises, his arms somehow find themselves wrapping around John’s upper body as well.

They both hold on tightly, cheek-to-cheek, arms tangled messily around one another.

Sherlock’s heart is like thunder: thump, thump thump.

He wonders if John can feel it against his own chest.

“Sherlock. I’m…” A sigh of deep relief. “I’m glad you’re okay. You gave me quite a scare there, you know.”

_John. Can you feel it?_

”John, I’m... I’m fine. I’m not hurt. Thank you for helping me, I’m...”

Sherlock’s voice is a breath on John’s neck.

_Can you feel it?_

The stubble of their jaws rubbing together as the two breathe into the silence of the room.

_Can you feel it?_

“Thank you, John.”

Sherlock’s lips ghosting against John’s earlobe. The air surrounding them, heavy with all that’s left unsaid.

_Can you feel it?_

A quiet kiss against John’s jaw. 

And John’s breath stops: he can feel it.

A kiss to John’s cheek. A kiss to John’s neck. A kiss to John’s temple. A kiss to John’s ear.

Soft, like the coat of a newborn lamb.

“Sherlock.” A deep, hoarse whisper.

Sherlock pulls away, pressing his hand over John’s heart, and Sherlock can feel it. Thundering. Like his own.

Silence. 

“Can you feel _this,_ John?” he asks. “That is to say—each and every little thing that I am feeling for you right now—can you feel it, too?”

A long, shaky sigh. “Yes. Yes, Sherlock. I can feel it all.”

John’s lips then become closer, sealing over his.

A kiss: a tiny explosion of passion and light.

There is truly no better feeling.


	2. People Like You Have No Imagination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's clear that they are no longer talking about cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 Prompt: “People Like You Have No Imagination.”
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe <3

“That was—“  
  
“—scientific exploration—“  
  
“—so bloody stupid, Sherlock, I mean seriously—“  
  
“—into the limits of speed and agility of the human body—”

“—I mean, for God’s sake! You tell people you’re a genius, and then you go and do things like _that_ and, and, and _fuck_ , Sherlock, _you could have died.”_

Sherlock Holmes pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, pinioning John with his strange, pale eyes. John ignores the pounding of his heart, somehow still beating after it had stopped dead for a few seconds from watching Sherlock dart out right in front of incoming traffic to pick up a cat he hadn’t even _caught_ , the bloody _idiot,_ and stares back, unfazed.

“People like you,” Sherlock sneers, “have no imagination.”

“People like me,” John answers steadily, “don’t almost get hit by lorries because we’re chasing after a _cat._ ”

Sherlock wilts, stepping away from John with a pout on his face, shoulders curving downwards gently as he mumbles something into the collar of his coat. Only when John’s hands fall away does he realize that he’s been gripping Sherlock by the upper arms, and he feels strangely empty without a piece of his friend to hold on to. Especially after a scare like that.

Sighing, John catches up to Sherlock, stepping around the front of him and cutting him off before he can use those ridiculously long legs to hightail it home and leave John in the dust. Again.

“What was that?” John asks, taking Sherlock by the shoulders, because he still feels lingering fear in his chest, and he needs a tangible piece of Sherlock to hold onto right now. John decides that if Sherlock complains, he will simply ignore him, but John doubts that Sherlock will complain. He doesn’t ever mind when John touches him, and this is dangerous; there’s nothing stopping John from touching Sherlock as much as he wants to, save for John himself.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mutters. He isn’t quite meeting John’s gaze, which is strange. Sherlock and John have many problems; eye contact has never been one of them.

“Oh, come on,” John says with as much of a smile as he can muster. He’s feeling a bit bad for yelling, even though he had been completely justified in his anger. Sherlock had been fucking stupid, but John doesn’t like to see Sherlock upset, and, well, hell, he’s never really been able to stand up to Sherlock when he looks like that, so why start now? John tilts his head down until he meets Sherlock’s gaze. “I’m sure you had something clever to say that you want to make fun of me with. Out with it, now.”

Sherlock looks at him now, stepping closer so that John has to look up to meet his gaze. “It was a black cat, John.”

“Yeah,” John says after a pause. “That’s… yes, that’s true, it was.”

“Black cats are two-thirds less likely to get adopted than any other kind of cat—did you know this, John? Because of a ridiculous pop culture-induced stigma surrounding that particular breed, nobody wants them. People are _scared_ of them, think they mean bad luck and witchcraft and _‘oops, there’s a black cat crossing the road, better just circumvent this path completely because I wouldn’t want to risk coming in contact with a vile creature like that!’_ And so there are more stray black cats, and more black cats are euthanised in shelters than any other. They’re overlooked or they’re killed or they’re turned away because of the idiotic hive-mind of stupid,  _stupid_ human beings, shunned and, and, and ostracized, and yet people see nothing _wrong with this._  They think it’s okay to hate something that’s a little bit different or a little bit strange, and it’s terribly lonely, John, to have people think that way of you, you know.”

Sherlock’s voice has been building throughout this speech, his gestures wide, his eyes bright with something that isn’t excitement. There’s a hard, thin line to his mouth, a quick, nervous energy to his hands, a flat, hollow timbre to his words. He breaks off, mouth hanging open the slightest bit and just stares at John, as if he doesn’t have any idea what else to say.

It’s clear that they are no longer talking about cats.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, and with a little noise, Sherlock slips forward into John’s arms, folding tight and small against his chest and curling into him like a clinging vine. He somehow manages to tuck his face into the warm dip of John’s neck and shoulder despite his height, and squeezes John’s waist tightly in his arms.

John’s heart is beating fast with an entirely different kind of fear, now. He feels raw with the perfection of holding this sad, strange, lovely man.

“Sherlock,” he says again, and his voice is hoarse, and he has to clear his throat, and somehow, Sherlock moves even closer. John closes his eyes; the glow of streetlights is orange through his eyelids. “I didn’t mean it. What I said. You aren’t stupid. You are the most brilliant, the most wonderful…” his words dry up in his throat, and he has to pause, has to breathe; the scent of Sherlock’s curls, silky against John’s cheek, fills him up. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he finally says, and he isn’t surprised at how fierce his whisper is. “You are different in all of the ways that matter, and there is nobody on this planet who is as beautiful as you are, inside and out, and…”

Sherlock has lifted his head; he’s staring down at John now with eyes that are wider than saucers and brighter than spotlights, cheeks the colour of the insides of seashells, mouth a round _O_ that would be comical if it weren’t so damn kissable.

“I love you,” John says. The words flow out of him, free and easy, like water from a floodgate. He smiles. Lifts a hand and cradles Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, brings Sherlock closer until John’s breath is dancing across his lips, until John can nudge at Sherlock’s jaw with the tip of his nose. “Haven’t said that before. Should have done.”

 _“John_ ,” Sherlock says, and before John can even blink, Sherlock is kissing him.

It feels perfectly natural to be kissing Sherlock Holmes; perfectly natural, and yet at the same time, more ground-shaking than anything John’s ever done before. He never, ever wants to stop doing it. He would be happy to simply stand here on this sidewalk in the dark for the rest of his life, so long as he was allowed to have Sherlock here— _exactly_ here—with him.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock breathes against John’s lips, resting his forehead on John’s and sagging bonelessly against him.

John smiles. He curves his palm against the nape of Sherlock’s neck, fingers twining through soft, warm curls, and they stand there, swaying gently back and forth while traffic and people surge all around them.

“I know.”


	3. How Can I Trust You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays a little dress-up for Halloween; love bites ensue.
> 
> ***
> 
> _The gorgeous, raven-haired man continues to pin John with his gaze, blinking slowly, his eyelashes draping over his stark cheekbones. “Please.” His full lips form into a pout. “It’s very cold outside.”_
> 
> _“Vampires are supposed to love cold, dark places,” John replies, his voice steady. “Don’t think I’ll take my chances.”_
> 
> _Then, without warning, the predator strikes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 Prompt: “How Can I Trust You?”
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour. 
> 
> Just a little established-relationship Halloween softness for you all. Enjoy! ❤️

“No way. How can I trust you? You _are_ a vampire, after all.”

An alluring stare. A smile of seduction. A deep, satin voice. “Can we—for just one moment—pretend that I’m not, Doctor Watson?” 

John regards the creature standing before him on the doorstep, wrapped in a blanket of darkness—his fair, smooth skin; his all-encompassing glare; his piercing eyes, and fangs presumably just as piercing. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” John whispers. “What will happen once I invite you into my home, and you bite me? What shall I do then?”

The creature raises a dark eyebrow at John, the tip of his tongue peeking over his long, jagged incisor. He takes a step forward, crowding himself against John’s smaller body. “And what exactly makes you think I’m going to…” he lowers his voice to near silence. “...bite you, Doctor Watson?”

“Hmm.” John doesn’t back away. “Perhaps it’s because you’re a predatorial demon, and you showed up at my door at two in the morning—am I to believe you simply dropped by to ask the time?”

The gorgeous, raven-haired man continues to pin John with his gaze, blinking slowly, his eyelashes draping over his stark cheekbones. “Please.” His full lips form into a pout. “It’s very cold outside.”

“Vampires are supposed to love cold, dark places,” John replies, his voice steady. “Don’t think I’ll take my chances.”

Then, without warning, the predator strikes.

 _“John,”_ he hisses, baring his fangs as he leaps forward, pouncing through the threshold onto John, knocking him off of his feet as they topple onto the ground.

“Sherlock!” John exclaims as a gust of wind is knocked out of his chest—a combination of surprise and his back hitting the wooden floor.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, wrapping his entire body around John’s and sinking bonelessly into it. “I can’t believe you were just going to leave me out there.”

John smiles fondly as Sherlock buries his chilly nose against the skin of his neck. “This was all your idea—getting dressed in your Halloween costume and acting the part. There’s no way I’d just invite you in so you can bite me, if we’re being realistic.”

“Mm. Warm.” Sherlock wraps his legs over John’s to keep him still as he nuzzles his face further into his neck. He inhales John’s scent, he inhales John, he inhales everything of John that he can. He holds his body against his, and the love he feels for John right now is so bright he almost bursts.

“No,” John moans pleadingly through a fit of laughter. “Your demon mind-tricks aren’t going to work on me!”

Sherlock ignores John and kisses the side of his neck. Soft, careful, delicate.

“Dammit.” John doesn’t stand a chance against Sherlock when he’s doing things like that. He exhales a happy noise, and then—

“Ouch!” John yells, but he doesn’t stop laughing. “Christ, Sherlock! The fangs!”

“But _John.”_ Sherlock continues to lightly press his soft lips against John’s skin. “I’m afraid you’re just too tempting for me to resist.”

“Am I?”

Sherlock nuzzles his nose into John’s neck as he nips at it again and again. “Yes.”

John hums. “You’re pretty irresistible yourself, you know.”

“So,” Sherlock says, with another tiny kiss placed on the top of John’s shoulder. “You approve of my costume, then?”

“Yes.” John inhales, the warmth of affection in his chest for this man bleeding into his entire body, and he pulls him in closer. “I very much approve.”

“And you’ll wear the one I picked for you, too?” Sherlock mumbles against John’s collarbone.

John tries to argue. He really does. “Sherlock, I don’t know. I just feel as though I’m slightly too old to be wearing a costume for Halloween, so—“

But then, Sherlock does something positively enchanting with his tongue against the underside of John’s jaw, and John is once again helpless to his apparently flawless mind-control techniques.

“Ahhhh, ah! Okay, fine! I’ll wear it.”

Without warning, John takes Sherlock by the shoulders, wraps his legs around his, and flips their bodies over, pinning Sherlock to the ground. “See? This is why I didn’t invite you in. You’ve got way too much power over me, you evil, evil man.”

Sherlock looks up at John, his light eyes twinkling. “Kiss me.”

John shakes his head and huffs. “As long as you promise not to bite,” he says, but he’s already tilting his head downwards, palms splayed out onto the floor, brushing his nose against the other man’s.

“No biting,” Sherlock agrees. “I just want a small taste.”

And John can’t resist him. He supposes he never really could. He presses his head down further to join his mouth to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock skims his tongue over John’s bottom lip as he begins to bite at it very, very softly.

“Careful,” John warns lowly. “You’re going to draw blood.”

Sherlock grins. “That was the point. Vampire, remember?”

John quickly pulls his mouth away. “I’ll get my revenge. Just you wait. Once I have my werewolf costume on, it’s all over for you.”

Sherlock smirks, leaning upwards to smile against the corner of John’s mouth. “What exactly are you going to do, John? Howl at the moon until I’m angry about it?”

John presses his hands further onto the floor and pushes himself away from Sherlock, glaring at him menacingly. “I bite too, you know,” he says. “And not just on the neck. I’ll bite you anywhere and everywhere, when you very least expect it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes sardonically. “I’m so _very_ afraid, you frightening, jumper-wearing monster.”

Suddenly, John lets out a loud, bursting noise, somewhere between a snarl and a growl, and sinks his teeth playfully into Sherlock’s shoulder—hard.

Sherlock yelps in pain.  _“John!”_

“Should’ve kept your fangy mouth shut, Nosferatu.”

“Hmph. I’m afraid you’ll just have to make me.”

John smiles at him, pressing his body down and falling into Sherlock until there is no air left between them. He growls again, claiming Sherlock’s lips with his, and he kisses him fiercely.

It works a charm.


	4. Will That Be All?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unilock. John spots Sherlock at a dance party and it’s love (and protectiveness) at first sight.
> 
> ***
> 
> _The writhing, costumed crowd before him parts just as the music pulses; John nearly drops his beer._
> 
> _There is a wonder out there on the dance floor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by unicornpoe❤️

The music pumps out hard and fast and electronically percussive, pounding deep in John’s chest like an artificial heartbeat.

He leans against the bar with one hip, trying his best not to feel at once annoyed that he let Mike and Bill drag him here to this Halloween party, embarrassed at the rather shoddy job he’d done at throwing together a last-minute costume— (Superman T-shirt, fake glasses, white button up, dark tie, and _bam_ , he’s Clark Kent, just like half the other blokes here)—and anxious because he has about half a million exams he should be studying for right now.

John sips his beer and edges further away from the crowd, trying to avoid getting trampled as he lets his eyes wander. Just half an hour more. Then he can probably escape without seeming rude…

The writhing, costumed crowd before him parts just as the music pulses; John nearly drops his beer.

There is a wonder out there on the dance floor.

Tight leather trousers, boots, fake sword, a billowing white shirt opened at the chest. His head is thrown back, his eyes are closed. His arms are stretched langrously above his head, and he moves like smoke in a bottle, like mist on a lake, like something untouchable. There’s a blissed-out smile on his face; his dark, dark curls stick to his forehead and his cheeks with glistening sweat, and his eyeliner— _Christ_ —is almost artfully smudged.

The sleeves of his loose shirt fall down to gather around his elbows, and his skin glows lavender in the ever-changing lights of the dim club. He shifts his hips slowly, slowly, in small circles, and John forces himself to breathe.

As John watches (stares), someone comes up behind the otherworldly boy. Someone tall—taller than the kid—and dressed like Dracula. Someone who’s leering in a not entirely sober and not entirely friendly way. Someone who’s bracketing the the other man’s hips with two huge, beefy hands, and pulling him backwards, and breathing against his neck, and holding him still, still, still.

The beautiful boy stops moving; he stiffens, his arms fall down to his sides, his eyes fly open—and they are electric blue and offended and vulnerable and staring _straight at John._

John sets his beer down on the bar, and he dives into the crowd.

He shoulders his way past hot, undulating bodies, ducking elbows and dodging hips and trying to see past the thud of music in his skull. He loses sight of his target once, lost behind Wonder Woman and Harry Potter, but the crowd shifts again, and the surge carries John forward until—

Dracula isn’t holding onto him anymore, but he’s hovering over him, and John feels a surge of protectiveness that he can’t explain away. “Hey, babe,” he says, coming up face-to-face with the boy. He smiles, and the boy stares at him for a second; then he leans in, brushing his lips against the corner of John’s mouth with a hot puff of breath that sends a shiver down John’s spine.

On reflex, John lets his arms lift until they’re resting loosely around the boy’s waist. He is slim and warm and breathing quickly, and he fits alarmingly well in John’s hold.

Slowly, the boy pulls his mouth away. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. A voice like crushed velvet, a smile like a mystery. His irises flash violet in the half-dark, standing out boldly with their outline of black.

“I promised I’d find you,” John answers. He winks, heart pounding in time with the music, and the man in his arms laughs as John presses the palm of one hand firmly into the small of the his back.

“Yes,” says the boy, beginning to sway from side to side with the music, with the beating of John’s heart. “You did.”

“Fucking tease,” says Dracula from behind the boy, his words slurred but loud enough to be heard over the music. John’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. He barely restrains himself from letting go of the boy, just so he can get a good hit to the arsehole’s face.

“Will that be all?” he grits through his teeth instead, and the boy laughs again, tipping forward until his forehead rests on John’s shoulder. John tightens his grip a little bit as Dracula glares at him and stumbles back into the bouncing crowd.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

And then John backs away a few paces, leaving room between them. He feels suddenly embarrassed. That was bold of him. Too bold, maybe. Hell, he basically just _claimed_ this man, which wasn’t what he’d set out to do at all; but it had felt so _right_ in that moment—

“Thank you,” the boy breathes. John can’t hear his voice above the din, but he watches the movement of his full, dark lips, sussing out the meaning of the words. He swallows.

“Any time,” he rasps. _Any time at all. Right now, if you’d like. I’d like. Very much. Please?_

John backs away another step. The boy in front of him tilts his head, and the wide collar of his shirt slips down over one shoulder, revealing a pale, elegant clavicle. He makes up the distance between them once more with swift steps, one arm wrapping around John’s waist and one going to his face, where he plucks John’s glasses off with a fluid motion. Grinning, he flips them closed and then tucks them into the front pocket of John’s jeans slowly, moving closer all the while.

“My name’s Sherlock,” he whispers, looking up at John through thick black lashes matted with sweat and makeup. He slides his hand from John’s pocket to his hip, and John takes the hint; he hooks two fingers in the loops of Sherlock’s trousers and yanks him forward until they’re standing flush against each other, chests heaving and ribs contracting and pulses thundering. Sherlock’s grin shifts to something slower, darker.

“I’m John Watson,” John manages to say. His whole body is tingling, thrumming with energy and attraction and giddy desire.

“Mm,” hums Sherlock. He lets John brush his lips against the sharp line of Sherlock’s jaw, and John smiles with satisfaction at the way his breath stutters, even at that light touch. “You saved me. I owe you, now.”

“I think,” John breathes, imprinting the words over the leaping pulse in Sherlock’s neck, “that we can find a way for you to make it up to me.”

“I think,” Sherlock whispers, tilting his head down as John lifts his chin to meet him, their lips brushing as he speaks, “that you’re right.”


	5. Take What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What is it that you want in life, John Watson? What is it that you need?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 Theme: “Take What You Need.”
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour. ❤️

Sherlock Holmes has always enjoyed a good mystery, to say the very least.

Mysteries of all sorts—the ones he can solve (because it shows what a proper genius he is); the ones he can’t solve, because those ones keep him on his toes (though it tends to be frustrating nonetheless).

John Watson always keeps Sherlock on his toes. The man is a mystery eternally and wholly unsolved.

And it doesn’t seem to matter how long Sherlock has known John—he has yet to really, truly figure him _out._

Shouldn’t it be easy? He lives with the man, for God’s sake, and at first glance, John Watson seems to be a simple man. But the one thing that Sherlock _has_ learned about him over time is how utterly complex he truly is.

When John comes home, Sherlock wonders, from wherever he was at Who-knows-o’clock, and he wears that tired expression on his face: what is he thinking about? When he wistfully stares out the window on a Sunday morning, what is it that he longs for? When he wakes up excited and motivated, as if he can take on the world, what is it that he’s looking forward to? When he yells at Sherlock for the twentieth time in a single day, what exactly is he yelling about?

(Sherlock might actually know the answer to that one if he’d been listening, but no matter.)

Sherlock often reflects, himself, on what thoughts may possibly be swirling around John’s average-ish brain. Dates? The dentist? Dinner? Television shows?

What is it that you want in life, John Watson? What is it that you _need?_

John isn’t much one for talking about these sorts of things, and neither is Sherlock. Yet, the mystery of it—of John—compels Sherlock to try and figure it out all the same.

It’s a work in progress.

***

_Take What You Need_

The words barely register in Sherlock’s consciousness as he scans the nearby bulletin board in the park on his walk home from Bart’s. It’s early autumn; the breeze is crisp, the leaves are bright colours on the trees.

He glances over the board to read over his usual fare—missing persons, unsolved murders, lost dogs—but there is nothing new or of interest; only a few advertisements for piano lessons and car repair and fortune tellers and other senseless drivel.

_Take What You Need_

The second time Sherlock reads the words, they catch his attention; they’re printed on a bright sheet of paper. Underneath the large words TAKE WHAT YOU NEED, arrows point downwards to small, individually-cut strips of paper hanging at the bottom. Each piece has a word on it—offering a person to symbolically “take” what they might ostensibly _need._

Kindness. Understanding. Passion. Forgiveness. Empathy. Honesty. Laughter. Freedom. Gentleness. Blah. Blah. Blah.

At the far right of the page are a few blank strips. Sherlock takes a writing utensil from his pocket, writing the word “MURDER” onto a blank strip in gigantic block letters, and tears the piece of paper off with a gloat. “Yes, a murder is exactly what I need!” he says to himself.

Only then does he notice the elderly woman standing over his shoulder, observing him with wide, startled eyes.

“You can write your own,” Sherlock says to her, nonplussed. “Perhaps you can ask for a murder, too.” He gives her a nod, headed home with a grin, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, leaves crunching beneath his feet.

 ***

_Take what you need: Kindness_

John comes home later than usual that evening. Sherlock deduces that one of his coworkers had stepped out early (dinner date) and left John to do all of the paperwork.

“Hey,” John mutters dully as he walks past Sherlock on his way up the stairs to his bedroom, flinging his keys and wallet on the coffee table. “Would you mind ordering us some Chinese takeout? I’m exhausted, and don’t feel like cooking.”

Sherlock tries to protest (He hates talking to people on the phone, and he’s not even hungry, and besides, it’s John’s turn to pay), but before he can argue, John slams his bedroom door shut behind him.

Sherlock stares at the door for a few seconds before finally deciding, defiantly, to reach for his phone and call for takeout anyway. As he does, his hand brushes up against John’s wallet and keys, and he notices something there: it appears to be a tiny strip of paper with the word “kindness” written on it.

Sherlock laughs. Apparently, John had passed the same bulletin board that he had on his way home, and had picked up his own strip of paper. (Though he hadn’t, oddly enough, wished for murder).

_Take what you need_

And then, the realisation strikes Sherlock—for the first time in as long as he can remember, he knows, with perfect certainty, precisely what John needs.

“A large order of dim sum,” he barks into his phone. “221B Baker Street.”

 

***

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night, which isn’t a rarity for him at all, especially when he’s on a case. And he’s currently working on solving the mystery of John Watson, so that’s pretty much the same thing.

That night, Sherlock cleans the flat from top to bottom. He dusts the shelves, he scrubs the refrigerator, he sweeps the floors, he does the dishes.

At approximately ten of seven in the morning, he begins to make breakfast.

John comes down from his bedroom at five past, and he very obviously almost has a heart attack.

He gazes at Sherlock with amazement. “What happened to the flat?!” he sputters. “Did Mrs. Hudson take one of her herbal soothers in the middle of the night and clean the entire place?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “ _I_ did. Er, the cleaning part, that is. Not the herbal soothers part.”

John’s eyes continue to widen as he gawks at Sherlock in disbelief. “You did... _what?”_

Sherlock frowns back at him, pulling a chair outwards from the dining room table for John. “Sit down and eat, John. The eggs are going to get cold if you wait too long.”

John looks, again—annoyingly—as though he may die from shock. His jaw nearly hits the floor, and his eyebrows are raised high upon his forehead. “You…cooked?! Sherlock, are you...are you feeling alright?”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock says, a bit miffed.

John smiles at him—he’s positively glowing—and he shakes his head back and forth. “Yeah, of course it’s okay… so did you need to, erm, ask me a favour, or something? I’m just...”

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock says, pouring a cup of tea. “Why does there have to be a reason for me to do something nice for you? Do you honestly think of me as such an unkind person?”

“I…” John’s mouth continues to hang open.

“I believe the words you’re searching for,” Sherlock says with near petulance, “...are _Thank_ and _you_ and _Sherlock_.”

John walks to the dining room table, sinking into his chair silently, and he looks back up at Sherlock, with his glowing, grateful smile. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Oh. Sherlock feels something pleasant in his stomach. Perhaps he is hungry, after all.

As John eats the breakfast Sherlock had made for him, all Sherlock knows is that John looks dreadfully happy, and that he could definitely get used to _that._

 

***

 

_Take what you need: Fun_

It’s a relief that John is such a creature of habit—the next day, John sets down his wallet in the exact same place, and leaves a new strip of paper next to it.

Sherlock looks at the word on the paper— _fun_ —and he instantly knows exactly what to do.

“John,” Sherlock yells across the flat. “Put on something warm. We’re going out. It’s for a case. Stakeout. Art gallery. Four separate break-ins, one missing person—an intern—no evidence of the break-ins other than the paintings being rearranged in the middle of the night, despite the security guards being on duty.”

John peeks his head out from the kitchen, his expression stiff, obviously holding back a much more enthusiastic reaction. “Sounds interesting,” he says steadily. “I’ll put on my coat.”

Sherlock watches him turn to collect his outerwear, and he can’t help but notice the extra spring in John’s step that was decidedly not there when he had arrived home from work.

That evening, John and Sherlock spend hours staking out a nearby art gallery (which had never actually been broken into) and searching for a (made-up) missing person and chasing down criminals (or possibly just scaring the living hell out of the unlucky group of innocent pedestrians who had dared take a shortcut to the other side of Patton avenue).

As the two men walk through the door of Baker Street past midnight, panting and out of breath, Sherlock can’t stop looking at the giant grin on John’s face.

Before John turns to walk to his bedroom, he pauses and turns to look up at Sherlock, his happiness uncontainable, and Sherlock feels the fluttering in his stomach again.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John says. “That was exactly what I needed.”

 ***

_Take what you need: Touch_

Well.

Sherlock knows it’s been some time since John has been intimate with a woman (seven weeks, three days, to be exact). So it makes sense that John might be craving touch of some kind.

Sherlock and John don’t touch, though. Not really—at least, not on purpose. There is the occasional lingering hand on the arm when something exciting is going to happen, or on the small of Sherlock’s back when John is feeling protective ( _why protective?_ ).

It isn’t that Sherlock hasn’t _wanted_ to touch John before—in fact, he thinks it could be quite nice—but he never knows exactly how to go about doing those sorts of things. He can’t count how many times he’s simply wanted to wrap his arms around John’s body for comfort, or fall asleep resting his head against his shoulder as they watch television into the early morning hours.

He never thought it might be something that John would want, but—then again, he’s never been able to figure out John Watson, has he?

So that night, as they sit on the sofa together watching some boring program about automobiles, Sherlock decides to try giving John what he needs, and clumsily folds his arms around John’s shoulders without warning.

John freezes, but doesn’t flinch. “Erm, Sherlock. Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Sherlock says. “For some odd reason, it simply seemed like the thing to do.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock can feel John’s nervous breath in puffs of air against his shoulders, along with a sudden keen sense of inner-dread that he’s possibly making a mistake.

“Is it alright?” Sherlock asks.

John clears his throat. “Yeah. Sure. It’s alright. Just allow me to—“ he shifts a bit underneath Sherlock, pulling his own arms out from underneath, and wraps them around him.

“Amazing,” Sherlock says genuinely. “It feels much better when you’re doing it as well.”  

“Yeah, it definitely does,” John agrees, his body instantly becoming more relaxed. “It feels...nice.”

Sherlock smiles, and thinks that perhaps the stupid automobile program isn’t quite so bad after all.

 ***

  _Take what you need: Freedom_

Freedom? Sherlock wonders. Freedom from what?

From him?

Sherlock supposes that he may have overstepped his boundaries the previous night when he practically latched himself onto John’s body. Is he just being insecure, and paranoid?

What? When has Sherlock Holmes ever been insecure?

_John Watson, you mysterious man, what are you doing to me?_

Sherlock decides not to risk it. John wants freedom, after all, and that means independence, which means being alone, which is something Sherlock is all too familiar with, so—

Sherlock writes a post-it note and leaves it on the bathroom mirror: “Went out to Bart’s. I’ll be gone for the evening.”

He pulls the Belstaff on, wraps his scarf around his neck, and steps out into the chilly autumn breeze.

He doesn’t expect the text that comes in at eight twenty-three.

It’s from John.

_Hey. When are you coming home?_

_Probably after midnight. I’m elbows deep in Mrs. Murphy right now. SH_

_Thanks, that’s very...vivid._

_Anyway, I was just wondering if you’d be home for dinner._

_No. SH_

_Oh. Alright. I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then. Goodnight._

_Goodnight. SH_

Sherlock stares down at his phone, frowning, as though it had just sprouted an appendage.

Odd. John never texts Sherlock to ask for his whereabouts. And he definitely doesn’t text to tell him goodnight.

The mystery of John Watson grows more complicated still.

 ***

_Take what you need: Honesty_

Sherlock is rather excited for this particular one—finally, something with which he has plenty of previous experience. He can be completely honest all day long and never grow tired of it, in fact, and if that’s what John needs today, that is what he’ll get.

John makes them dinner that night (spaghetti), and as they eat, Sherlock takes the first opportunity for honesty that he is presented with.

John gazes at him from across the table. “How’s the spaghetti?” he asks.

“I’ve eaten better,” Sherlock says enthusiastically. “The sauce is rather bland.”

“What?”

“It could use more oregano, or possibly slightly less salt.” Sherlock smiles at John. 

John shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow. Sherlock, I… I made dinner for us, and this is the appreciation I get?”

John looks angry.

_No. No. He’s not supposed to be angry._

Sherlock wonders if, perhaps, he isn’t being honest enough.

So he tries harder.

“John, please don’t be angry. You resemble a mad hedgehog when you’re angry, and your rage-sniffing causes you to sound as though you’re having some sort of seasonal allergic reaction.”

John throws his fork onto his plate. “Sherlock!” He backs his chair away from the table.

_No. No no no. Not enough?_

“And last week,” Sherlock continues urgently, “I used your computer and found your most recent pornography collection. And the woman you’ve just started dating is married, but that doesn’t make any difference, because she finds you incredibly bland anyway, sort of like the pasta sauce you make. In fact, she doesn’t really enjoy your spaghetti, either.”

John flings up from his chair, his face beet-red.

_Why isn’t this working?_

“You rude, arrogant bastard!” John says, his voice a very low, very threatening calm. “What the hell has gotten into you lately? First, you make me breakfast, and we have an amazing stakeout, and then you want to cuddle, and now you’re flinging insults at me?”

Sherlock shrinks back, silent, unsure of what to say. He’s doing this wrong, he knows, but he doesn’t know why. “John,” he says. “I’m just… I’m just trying to be your friend.”

“Well, then, you’re being a horrible friend,” John snaps back at him, and the words burn like a bed of hot coals.

“John, I’m—“

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John interrupts, and he turns to leave. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He doesn’t even collect his half-eaten plate of food before he walks upstairs to his room, firmly shutting the door.

Well. _That_ was a disaster.

***

_Take what you need: Forgiveness_

The next evening, Sherlock is still thinking about the fight he and John had. Which is odd. They’ve had fights before, but for some reason, Sherlock can’t stop obsessing over this one.

Perhaps it’s because, for the first time that he can remember, John’s words had genuinely hurt him. And he thinks, perhaps, his words had hurt John as well.

_Why? Why? John Watson, why won’t you allow your mystery to be solved?_

After Sherlock finds the strip of paper that John has brought home that evening, his heart sinks a tiny bit.

_Forgiveness._

It seems John is feeling some leftover regret as well.

So Sherlock perches himself at the bottom of the steps outside of John’s bedroom and waits for him to come down for his evening tea.

John opens his bedroom door a few minutes later, and he peers at Sherlock sitting down at the end of the staircase. “Sherlock?” he mutters. “Everything okay?”

“John.” Sherlock stares back up at him, his expression wholly unguarded. “I’m sorry about last night. And before you apologise to me, I want you to know that I’ve already forgiven you.”

“Sherlock—“ John shakes his head. “Thank you.” He walks downstairs and holds both hands out to Sherlock, pulling him into a standing position. “I’m truly sorry about what I said last night. It’s just been an emotional week, I suppose.”

Sherlock doesn’t pull his hands away from John’s and John doesn’t pull away, either. “Like I said—I forgive you.”

John’s eyes light up and his mouth twitches upwards, and he squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “It’s as if you’ve read my mind,” he says. “Again.”

Sherlock lowers his eyes to the floor. “No, I haven’t been reading your mind, John.” He takes his hand slowly away from John’s and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small slip of paper that says “forgiveness.” And another one, and another, and another. _Kindness. Fun. Touch. Honesty._

“I have,” he says, “however, been reading these.”

John’s mouth hangs open, and it all seems to hit him at once. The realisation of all Sherlock has been doing for him this past week. “Oh,” he says. “That—that explains a lot.”

“John. Frankly, and alarmingly, your happiness means a great deal to me.” He puts the strips of paper back into his pockets. “And at first I thought it was solely because it made my life easier, but I’ve discovered that the state of my happiness appears to be closely aligned with yours.”

“Yeah,” John says with a smile. “I feel the same way.”

They gaze at one another silently, both searching for something to say after this sudden, heartfelt confession. Sherlock’s left hand remains in John’s grasp, and he can feel his palm becoming sticky with sweat, and his heart is beating irregularly, and his knees are beginning to feel a little bit shaky.

“Tea?” he asks John finally.

“Yeah.” John nods and gives Sherlock’s hand a final affectionate squeeze before dropping it. “I’d love some.”

And so they make tea, and drink it silently, and the mystery of John Watson remains unsolved still.

***

The next morning, Sherlock walks out of his bedroom at half past eight am.

He blinks sleepily as he enters the sitting room.

As his vision comes out of its tired blur, he notices squares of various colours on one wall. Pink, yellow, blue, green, orange.

It would seem that one entire side of the sitting room wall has been covered in post-it notes. And there’s a large sign above them with the written words: “It’s your turn, now. Take what you need.”

Sherlock looks at all of the notes, and it’s  incredible. John has hand-written each and every one, and as Sherlock reads them, he smiles from ear to ear. They all seem to be tailored to exactly the types of things Sherlock needs the most.

_Milk_

_For John to stop removing my body parts from the fridge_

_A case_ (that one is up there three times)

_Some peace and quiet_

_A day without Mycroft bothering me_

_A dog_

_Eternal patience with all of the idiots at the Yard_

But there is one thing that is missing—and Sherlock realises then, and there, that this particular thing is really more vital than anything else he could ask for.

He takes down a blank post-it note and scrawls something on it with a marker. As he finishes, he hears John entering quietly, and he looks up from the paper to see the other man staring back at him from across the room.

“Sherlock,” John says. “You’ve done so much for me. I just wanted to return the favour, if you’ll let me.”

Without saying a word, Sherlock lifts the post-it note he’s just written on and shows it to John:

_John Watson_

John stares. Blinks a few times. “You’re supposed to tell me what it is you need.”

Sherlock stares back at him. “I am.”

“You need…me?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. “Almost exclusively.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John takes two long strides forward and sweeps Sherlock into a tight embrace. “Don’t you realise you’ve already got that?”

“Do I?” Sherlock asks, pulling John into his body more tightly.

John kisses him softly on his cheek. “Absolutely.”

Sherlock leans his head back to look John in the eyes. “You’ve got me too, John. Always.”

John smiles. “That’s all I really need,” he says, and he kisses him. And Sherlock thinks, at least, for now, the mystery of John Watson has been solved.

 


	6. I’ve Heard Enough—This Ends Now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Gorgeous, and clever, and driven and passionate and dedicates his life to helping children? Yep. John is in big, big, big trouble._
> 
> _Mister Holmes nods. His lips part, and it looks as though he might say something more._
> 
> _John hopes that he will. He does._
> 
> _“Doctor Watson. Would you like to have coffee with me sometime later this week?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 Prompt: “I’ve Heard Enough—This Ends Now.”
> 
> This chapter was co-written by both FinAmour and unicornpoe. ❤️❤️

As John walks Rosie to the front door of the school building on her first day of Primary, he fully expects that she is going to cry.  
  
Turns out he had been wrong, however, because _he_ actually appears to be the one who’s gone all misty-eyed.  
  
“Be a good girl,” he says, straightening the straps of her backpack and smoothing stray strands of curly blond hair that refuse to stay in place. “Don’t talk during class. Don’t disrespect your teachers. And be sure to learn _lots.”_  
  
It hasn’t always been easy, being a widower and a single father, but John wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, and he never wants it to end.  
  
And today, she’s starting primary school, and John is terrified. How is this happening? Where had all the time gone, and how can John make it stop?  
  
Rosie smiles up at him, squirming in place; eager to go and make friends, as always, and to learn as much as she can. She bounces up on the tip of her toes to kiss him on the cheek. He catches her under the arms and hugs her close.  
  
“Bye, Dad,” she says absently as she catches sight of one of her neighbourhood friends over his shoulder, and she trots off before John is ready to let her go. (He’ll never really be ready to let her go.)  
  
As she scampers away, joining her friend at the classroom door, John tries to control the burning of his eyes and hold back the tears that are forming—proud, happy tears.

It’s then that John catches something—someone—out of the corner of his eye.  
  
There is a tall, posh-looking man standing near the entryway of the school; his hands rest upon his slim hips as he surveys the bustling comings and goings with a pair of keen, shifting eyes. He is lean and pale and dressed in an expensive suit. His hair is dark, and it curls around his face in rounded waves, brushing his brow and softening the edges of his high, defined cheekbones.  
  
He’s rather gorgeous.  
  
John thought he knew all of the parents at Rosie’s school, but _knows_ he hasn’t met his man. He would definitely remember if he had.  
  
John doesn’t realise he is staring until the mystery man’s eyes meet his. John attempts to hide his look of unveiled intrigue; he lowers his head to break his stare, giving the man a quick, cordial nod. He hopes the man hadn’t noticed, or that nothing further will come of it.  
  
But John’s hopes aren’t quite fulfilled. The man takes a few long strides confidently towards him, and as he does, John’s heart sets off pumping a bit too fast for his liking.  
  
The man stops in front of John. “Your daughter is Rosamund Watson,” he says, his voice deep and smooth. “Five years old. Born January twelfth. No known food allergies, enjoys reading, playing piano, and carrying out her own scientific experiments.”  
  
John stares back at him blankly, now feeling slightly perturbed. Who is this audacious man, exactly, and how does he know these things about Rosie?  
  
But the man leaves no more time for John to wonder.  
  
“I’m Mister Holmes,” he says, holding his hand out to John. “The school’s new headmaster.”  
  
Oh. John clears his throat. “Doctor John Watson,” he responds, gripping Holmes’ hand weakly. “Rosamund’s father.”  
  
“Yes,” Mister Holmes says with a nod. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a half-smile. “I’m aware of who you are. Apologies if I startled you just now—I’m simply attempting to introduce myself and better get to know my students and their families.”

“Oh, yeah. Right,” John says distractedly, his words clumsy in his mouth as they filter in slowly from his brain.

He can’t decide whether Mister Holmes’ eyes are blue, or green, or some combination of the two.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Holmes.” John firmly shakes Holmes’ hand, trying to smile and not look at those _gorgeous lips of his,_ and hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that the eggs from his breakfast aren’t smeared on the collar of his shirt.

Mister Holmes regards John for a moment; his eyes flickering across his features with almost dizzying speed, and John sees that those eyes actually are a true mixture of blue and green. Undefinable.  
  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Mister Holmes asks suddenly, pulling John from his reverie.  
  
John’s spine straightens automatically at the mention of the country he had lived and nearly died in over seven years ago. “Afghanistan,” he says warily as he extricates his fingers from Holmes’ long, pale ones. “How did you know?”  
  
Steadily, Holmes’ undefinable gaze meets John’s head-on.“I didn’t know,” Holmes says with a smirk. “I saw.”  
  
John has no idea what Holmes means, but that doesn’t stop the thrill of excitement and curiosity from blossoming in his chest. He can’t look away. “Alright, then. How did you...see?”  
  
Holmes glances down to John’s hand, nodding towards it. “The scar on your right inner-wrist is of quite a unique shape—the perforation of a blade which is made and used exclusively by the British Army. You’re left handed, judging by the hand you favoured while adjusting the straps of your daughter’s backpack, and by the long-lasting calluses on your fingers formed by holding a L117A automatic pistol. So the wound is likely self-inflicted, but the angle of the scar implies it was accidental, and not due to combat with another assailant. Army—honourable discharge, wounded in combat due to a gunshot wound to the shoulder, which you habitually rub when you’re nervous. As you seem to be now.”  
  
John quickly drops his arm to his side.  
  
Great. As if he hadn’t already been trembling enough by having Holmes’ eyes burn into him, reading him like a book—knowing how obvious he’d been only makes him even more nervous.  
  
“Not to worry,” Holmes reassures him with a grin. “Your nervousness isn’t obvious to anyone but myself.”  
  
“Well, I…” Yeah. That’s exactly what he’d been afraid of.  
  
_Wow._  
  
This man is gorgeous and clever—but he’s his daughter’s headmaster, so no—

 _Oh, no._  
  
John thinks he might be in big, big trouble.

“Retired army veteran,” Holmes continues without skipping a beat. “Born sometime in the nineteen-seventies, which would put your active dates around the time of both wars. So: Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
There is a pause. John stares at him, and he stares back, and around them, the world spins.  
  
“That,” says John slowly, “Was quite extraordinary.”  
  
Mister Holmes beams; he looks like a proud little boy, rocking back on his heels as his eyes slide away from John’s and he contemplates the ground. The tips of his ears are red.

  
“That’s not what people usually say,” Holmes says with a soft chuckle under his breath.  
  
“What do they usually say?” John asks, involuntarily stepping closer. His heart is beating hard.  
  
Mister Holmes huffs out a breathy chuckle again, although this time it seems slightly more ironic. _“I’m reporting this to your superiors.”_ __  
  
John laughs in surprise, and Mister Holmes looks him directly in the eye again, and gives him a slow grin.  
  
John feels heat flood to his cheeks.  
  
“It _was_ truly amazing, though,” John continues to murmur, lacking anything else appropriate to say (and that seems to be all he’s thinking, anyway). “You ought to have been a detective or something.”  
  
“I thought about it, actually,” Holmes says almost sheepishly. “However, I find that my ability to read people is highly useful when it comes to creating an efficient educational curriculum and ensuring the most effective teaching methods, thus ensuring the success of our students and thereby, our schools.”  
  
“That’s… pretty amazing as well,” John says, even though he maybe possibly stopped listening to the exact words halfway through that diatribe just so he could focus on the rumbling timbre of the man’s voice.  
  
Mister Holmes grins proudly. John’s heart stutters, skipping a few beats at the brilliance of that smile. He’s never really seen a smile like that before; he wants to take a picture.  
  
_Wow, wow, wow._  
  
Gorgeous, and clever, and driven and passionate and dedicates his life to helping children? Yep. John is in big, big, big trouble.  
  
Mister Holmes nods. His lips part, and it looks as though he might say something more.  
  
John hopes that he will. He does.  
  
“Doctor Watson. Would you like to have coffee with me sometime later this week?”  
  
“Pardon?” John coughs. He hadn’t expected that question, despite their seemingly innocent flirtation.

John wants to say yes. He does. But he isn’t sure if he should. He’s got his daughter to think about, and she will always, undoubtedly, come first.

“I…” John says carefully after a moment of silence. “I… I really appreciate the offer, Mister Holmes, but…” he clears his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t. You’re my daughter’s headmaster, and I just feel as though it would be a conflict of interest.”  
  
John can feel his heart drop even as the words are coming out of his mouth.  
  
“Of course,” Mister Holmes says immediately. “I completely understand.” And there is no trace of disappointment in his voice, which John actually finds a relief; even though he himself is already regretting his answer.  
  
Holmes smiles. The smile is still lovely, still sets John’s heart off beating a mile a minute, but it’s slightly more subdued now. A bit more contained.  
  
“Good day, Doctor Watson,” Holmes says as he extends his hand towards John once more, and John takes it. It’s warm.  
  
“Good day, Mister Holmes,” John replies with an answering smile, shaking his hand gently.  
  
Holmes pulls his hand free, turning on his heel as he gracefully strides back down the corridor.  
  
John feels a pang of regret as Holmes walks off. He can’t help but wonder if he is being unreasonable. How is it, exactly, that he’d only just met this man, and he doesn’t want him to go? John shakes his head quickly as if to rid himself of the thoughts, dusts off his jacket nervously, and walks out to the corner to hail a taxicab to get to work.  
  
***  
  
The first few weeks of Primary for Rosie go better than John could ever have hoped. Every morning, she practically drags John out of bed, eager to be on her way, and every afternoon when he picks her up, she chats nonstop about the things she’s doing, what she’s learning, the friends she’s making. John could not be happier.  
  
Every day, John drops Rosie off; he kisses her and wishes her a pleasant day; he smooths down her hair and he straightens her jumper.  
  
And as she runs off into the building, his eyes are immediately drawn to Mister Holmes, who always stands, like a statue, just outside the entrance of the school.  
  
And he is… magnetic. That’s the only word John can use to describe him.  
  
The two of them don’t talk—not verbally, anyway; but sometimes, he catches John’s eyes, and John feels entire conversations exchanged between them in just one look.  
  
God. That’s embarrassing to even think. True, but embarrassing.  
  
Holmes doesn’t greet the students as they walk in, either, or even smile at the passing parents or teachers—from what John can tell, it seems that Holmes’ primary purpose each morning is to engage in his own silent observation.  
  
Autumn moves into full swing, and soon the air is crisp and chilly and sweet-smelling with the departure of fall and the encroaching arrival of winter.  
  
And every day, John continues to drop off Rosie. Kisses her goodbye. She runs off laughing and smiling with her friends; leaving John to pretend that he isn’t watching Mister Holmes, who stands there, tall and slim and pale and stoic.  
  
John wonders if Mister Holmes can tell that he’s watching him. He’s sure he probably can, but by a certain point, John doesn’t even care; he stares at Mister Holmes freely.  
  
He knows he’d made the right decision to turn Holmes down for coffee on that first day—but he supposes there’s no harm in looking. That’s really all it is.

Until one morning in late November.

John walks Rosie to the front door of the school building, and she seems a bit more apprehensive than usual. She clings tightly to his hand instead of running up ahead with the rest of the kids. She presses her head against his arm and nearly tangles their feet together with her proximity.

“Daddy,” she says, her voice muffled in the fabric of his jacket. “I have a tummy ache. Can I go home?”  
  
John stops walking, cupping her cheek gently with one hand and pulling her face away from him. He presses the back of his fingers to her forehead and she blinks balefully up at him with big, blue eyes, fingers gripping his sleeve tightly. “You don’t feel feverish, love,” he says. “Think you can try to stick it out for the morning, and then call me if you aren’t feeling any better?”  
  
Rosie sighs. “Alright.” She seems anxious and sad, and John hates when she’s anything less than ecstatic. He just wants to wipe that look from her face somehow.  
  
“Hey,” he says softly, kneeling before her and pulling her into a close hug. “I love you.” She comes willingly, curling against him with her head slotted under his chin like when she was just a baby, and his heart swells with love for his little girl.  
  
They remain like this for a bit, eyes closed, clinging to each other for a precious few seconds. And then Rosie pulls away a bit, smiling at him. “Love you too, Daddy,” she says. He smiles back and she kisses him on the cheek, then pulls herself out of his arms, walking the rest of the way to the doors with unusually slow steps.  
  
John stands, and as he does, he sees something that catches his attention.  
  
A girl approaches Rosie, and instantly Rosie’s whole demeanor changes; her posture shrinks, she backs up a few steps, she seems scared and nervous and uncomfortable. John pauses to watch and silently assess the severity of the situation, and it looks as though the girl is saying something to Rosie that’s upsetting her.  
  
John wonders if he should step in. But perhaps he’s jumping to conclusions, or perhaps he should allow Rosie to try to solve the problem herself? People often tell him that he tends to be a bit of an overbearing parent, but—  
  
But then, as the other girl continues her tirade of words, Rosie begins to cry.  
  
John doesn’t think; he walks back towards his daughter as swiftly as he possibly can, nothing in his mind but to get to Rosie and give her comfort.  
  
Mister Holmes is faster.  
  
The tall man is standing in between Rosie and the other girl, and glaring down at the girl with a serious expression, before John’s even within reaching distance of the situation. “I’ve heard _enough,”_ he says sternly, and every head in the immediate vicinity turns towards him. “This ends now. Jessica, apologise, please.”  
  
The little girl across from Rosie lowers her head in response, and then she looks back up to apologise, her eyes narrowed.  
  
“Alright,” Mister Holmes says gravely. “If I see you threatening this young lady or teasing her one more time, I will be calling in your parents for a meeting. Do you understand?”  
  
Jessica lowers her head. “Yes, Mister Holmes.”  
  
John pauses and watches on; he is within hearing range, but Rosie is facing the opposite direction, and can’t see him—which is probably a good thing, as he always hates for her to see him worried or upset.  
  
And right then, Mister Holmes glances up and sees John watching. He smiles at John reassuringly, and John mouths a silent _thank you_ to him.

Holmes nods, still smiling, and John doesn’t know what to say or what to do, and so he simply stares gratefully back at him.

John feels the overwhelming urge to hug _him_ in this moment; he wants to throw his arms around the man who stopped that mean little girl from even _thinking_ that she can talk like that to Rosamund Watson.

The two of them then direct their attention to Rosie, who has stepped forward from where she was standing, and has wrapped her arms around Mister Holmes’ lanky legs for an appreciative hug.  
  
“Thank you, Mister Holmes,” she says, eyes closed with her enthusiasm. “Thank you for standing up for me.”  
  
Mister Holmes stiffens for a moment, staring down at her with wide eyes. Then he relaxes a bit, patting her on the back so gently that it looks like he expects her to be breakable; and despite his apparent efforts to keep a straight face, a warm smile melts onto his features, softening him.    
  
“You’re welcome, Rosamund,” he says. “It’s vital that you, and all of our students, feel safe and welcome here. Bullying will not be tolerated in the slightest.”  
  
Rosie continues to cling to Mister Holmes, and she tilts her head up to look at him, her smile large and guileless. “I like you, Mister Holmes,” she says decisively. “And you can call me Rosie.”

Holmes looks almost comically surprised, and then endearingly so.  
  
John can’t breathe. He thinks it may be the sweetest sight he’s ever seen.  
  
“I think my Daddy also likes you,” she continues. “He’s _always_ looking at you when he’s here. You should take him out for coffee. He likes coffee, too.”

Holmes looks embarrassed now, his eyes shifting nervously to John's. “Well, Rosie. I’m not exactly sure if—” he begins, but then he trails away into silence, his expression softening.

Because John is nodding his head at him vigorously and mouthing the words: _Yes. Coffee. Yes._

“That is, to say,” Mister Holmes continues with slightly more bolstered spirits, his eyes still fixed upon John's. “Perhaps I will ask him.”  
  
He smiles again, and John smiles back again too, big and real. The swelling in his chest is nearly too much for him; to see his daughter—always picky when it comes to who her father sees—be so attached to Mister Holmes, so insistent that they go out. There is absolutely no way John can say no to _her._  
  
Mister Holmes tears his eyes away and looks down once again at Rosie, who's still wrapped around him like some sort of monkey. “Perhaps you’d like to join us,” he adds. “The coffee shop down the street has some of the best muffins in London.”  
  
Rosie frowns at him, rolling her eyes as she lets go. “Um, no, ” she says, shaking her head so hard that her blond curls bounce. “I’m not going to third-wheel your first date with my Dad.”  
  
Holmes’ eyes fly to John's just as John's fly to his, and John tries to stifle the laugh of half-embarrassment, half pleasure that's bubbling out of him.  
  
“Ah,” Holmes says with amusement. “So it’s going to be a date, then?”  
  
“Yes,” Rosie replies, and at the exact moment her father nods and mouths the same word.  
  
Mister Holmes looks like he’s trying not to beam; John wishes that he would. “Alright, then,” he says with a nod. “If it’s fine with your father, we can consider it a date. Would you mind delivering the message to him for me?”  
  
“Sure!” Rosie says cheerfully as she turns to walk off to class, still not noticing John watching on. “I’ll tell him after school!”  
  
“Good,” Mister Holmes says with a smile. “Be sure and let me know what he says.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Mister Holmes,” Rosie calls back over her shoulder. “I predict he’s gonna be okay with it.”  
  
As Rosie disappears into her classroom, John and Mister Holmes continue to stare at one another, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
Of course, Rosie has always been much too smart for her own good; and this time, as always, her prediction is absolutely correct.


	7. No Worries; We Still Have Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flat catches fire. Sherlock and John are kissing. Guess which situation takes priority? 
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> “Shall I kiss you, John,” Sherlock breathes, “Or shall we continue to argue about biscuits?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 theme: “No Worries; We Still Have Time.”
> 
> This chapter was co-written by both unicornpoe and FinAmour ❤️
> 
> NOT REALLY SURE WHAT HAPPENED HERE. ENJOY THE FLUFFY CRACKY HOTNESS.

“No worries,” Sherlock casually says, much to John’s frustration. “We still have time.” He’s smiling nonchalantly.  

“Sherlock.” John is terrible at arguing with Sherlock when he’s holding onto him like this.

Sherlock leans in and kisses John softly on the cheek, and then moves to his temple, to his brow, to the top of his head.

John is terrible at arguing with Sherlock _ever._

“The biscuits went into the oven twenty minutes ago,” John reminds him, though he’s positive it won’t make a difference what he says. “We’ve got to pull them out before they burn.”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock reassures him as he bends his head, nuzzling his nose against John’s jaw. He sounds distracted. “If you’ll just allow me to—”

John finally turns his head to the side; Sherlock nibbles lightly at John’s earlobe with the tips of his teeth.

“ _Sherlock_.”

The scent of something burning begins to waft through the air.

“ _John_.”

John tries to sigh, but his sigh turns into a bitten-off moan as Sherlock slides his hands around John’s waist, to his back, up his spine. Sherlock kisses him, right at the notch of his jaw, curling his long body down and against John’s in that peculiar way of his that makes John feel at once protected and protective.

“If you don’t stop,” John warns, ridiculously proud of the fact that his voice remains steady, even if his own hands wander to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, to the dip of his slender waist. “If you don’t stop, Sherlock, the biscuits are going to _burn_ , and…”

“Yes, Darling,” Sherlock mumbles, the words buzzing against John’s skin. Sherlock isn’t paying attention, and John can feel his own will beginning to waver as Sherlock smears kisses in a slow trail from John’s jaw to his mouth.

“Sherlock,” John says again, and this time, his voice wavers a bit in the middle of the word. He hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice.

“Shall I kiss you, John,” Sherlock breathes, “Or shall we continue to argue about biscuits?”

The biscuits can wait for just a few more seconds, John thinks.

“Kiss.” John tugs at one of Sherlock’s curls with two fingers, and Sherlock smiles. “Now.”

Sherlock lowers his head once more, kissing the corner of John’s mouth through his happy expression, pressing against him as John finally, _finally_ kisses him back.

John pulls away a little bit, weaving his fingers through Sherlock’s thick curls, tilting his head to the side before pulling Sherlock closer. He hovers over Sherlock’s lips with his own for a few seconds—just long enough to feel Sherlock squirm eagerly against him—and then he tugs Sherlock’s face closer, notching their mouths together. Sherlock props himself up with one hand on the counter just behind the small of John’s back, and he leans his full weight against John, sagging against him bonelessly as he hums in delight.

John laughs. The counter is cutting into his back, now that he’s supporting both himself and all six feet of his clingy, punch-drunk boyfriend, but he doesn’t care, because Sherlock is making those tiny, happy noises that he only makes when John kisses him _like this_ , with his tongue and his lips, slow and tender.

John can feel the temperature rising in be room, and he knows that he’s got Sherlock to blame. Both men are sweating and flushed and breathing like they’d just run a marathon, and John is _completely consumed_ by the man who is pressed against him.

Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John sometimes considers actually pinching himself to check that moments like these are real; that Sherlock Holmes is actually allowing him to kiss him like this—no— _begging_ for John to kiss him like this. Often.

And John’s _mind_ is _equally consumed_ by the bliss and the heat of the moment.

Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he thinks he’s supposed to be remembering something, but he doesn’t currently care what that thing is; because Sherlock’s tongue is doing brilliant things alongside his own, and that’s definitely more important than any other thing in the world.

Sherlock bites gently at John’s bottom lip and John’s stomach swoops up into his throat, John’s ears start ringing, high, loud, louder, louder—

_Beep beep beep beep_

Smoke leaks in a thick, grey stream out of the oven; it curls in puffed clouds, rising toward their already smoke-stained ceiling.

Oh. Oh, no.

John is the first to pull away, and he works hard to extricate himself from Sherlock’s hold as the fire alarm that he’d forced Sherlock to reinstall more times than John can count on both hands blares above them.

“The biscuits!” Sherlock says with an air of panic and dread, as if this entire situation is a _surprise._ He’s still somehow draped against John’s side, both arms wrapped around him, chin resting against John’s temple, and he’s making absolutely no move towards helping this situation.

“Sherlock!” John snaps. “Help me out here, will you?”

Sherlock kisses John softly on the temple, his lips lingering. “Just one m—”

John can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin, and the range of emotions that cartwheel through his head at that thought is vast and dizzying.

“ _NO_ , Sherlock,” John says, pulling back again, a hysterical half-laugh bursting out of him as he tries his best to shove Sherlock away. “The kitchen is going to burn down! We’ve got to get out of—”

Sherlock pulls his head away from John quickly, his hands slumping to his sides. He is wearing an enormous pout on his face, his head hanging down, his eyes staring at the floor.

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, do you not realise that we are currently in danger?” 

 _Dammit._ He just wants to kiss that pout off of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh, To Hell with the kitchen,” John says finally, and he quickly kisses Sherlock on the lips just to make him happy—well, _quickly_ was the intention, anyway.

But then.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist, and…

And John is somehow back against the counter again, Sherlock gripping his waist tightly with his long fingers as he pants into John’s open mouth. John has one palm cupped over the back of Sherlock’s neck; his skin is smooth and slightly sticky with sweat and hot under John’s fingertips, and the curls of his hair brushing against John’s hand are soft and silky. With his other hand, John grips Sherlock’s waist, running his thumb up under the edge of Sherlock’s t-shirt.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock whimpers softly as John kisses him.

And then, there are many other noises.

Something shrill and loud above him that John distantly remembers he ought to be paying attention to.

Something sharp and hollow and repetitive, like a knock at their door.

Something that sounds strangely like Mrs. Hudson, trilling out their names from the landing; but the only sound that John cares to give any of his attention to is the sound of his name on Sherlock’s voice, spoken into John’s mouth.

_John. John. John. John._

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

“Boys? What’s going on in there? I smell smoke! Are you alright?”

_Bzzzzzzz._

Sherlock groaning into John’s mouth.

Sirens approaching.

_Wait._

John suddenly, painfully, sadly, pushes Sherlock away from him. 

 _“Sherlock!_ The flat is on fire!”

Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes flutter open and he glances around the room, taking in the chaos that surrounds them. “Yes, I rather suppose it is.”

“We need to evacuate,” John says in a panic.

The sirens are approaching. Closer, closer, closer…

Sherlock peers down at his wristwatch.

“The fire brigade should be here in approximately one and a half minutes.” He leans over to John and kisses him on the forehead. “No worries. We still have time.”

“Right.” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him in and kissing him, hard.

He supposes he and Sherlock have always been addicted to risky situations like these, anyway.


	8. I Know You Do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the times John tells Sherlock that he loves him, and the first time Sherlock finally says it back.
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> “I love you,” John whispers._
> 
> _He seals his mouth to Sherlock’s before Sherlock can even take a breath—perhaps, if only, to silence him. Sherlock melts even closer; chest filling with enough warmth that he completely forgets about the January breeze. He falls into John, and John holds him up, unflinchingly. Sherlock knows he always will._
> 
> _Distantly, the sound of three pairs of running feet bypasses them entirely._
> 
> _When John pulls away, he’s gasping for air, but he’s smiling, and his cheeks are pink with something more than the cold._
> 
> _“I know you do,” Sherlock replies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 Prompt: “I Know You Do.”
> 
> This chapter was co-written by both unicornpoe and FinAmour. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The first time Sherlock hears John say it, there are parrots involved.  
  
John returns home from the clinic at a quarter of six on a Monday in early October, and Sherlock knows instantly that his spirits are low; he is more downtrodden than usual, more drained—and Sherlock wishes, with every fibre of his being, that he could take that away.  
  
Instead, he does what he’s best at: he casually ignores him.  
  
“Home,” John says, seemingly too exhausted to fill in the rest of the sentence. He hangs his coat up on the rack, and enters the sitting room with tired steps.  
  
Sherlock remains cross-legged on the floor, papers strewn about him on every available surface, rifling through them distractedly with long, restless fingers.  
  
John sits down next to Sherlock. Close; Sherlock can’t ignore him when he’s that close. Sherlock innocently leans his body over John to collect the newspaper on the floor across from him (to feel John even closer); his curls brushing against John’s chin, and he pauses, simply remaining in that position.  
  
He can feel John’s body sinking into his before it even happens. John wraps him in his arms, seemingly for the lack of anything better to do, and the sensation is too good for Sherlock to let go of.  
  
The rate of Sherlock’s breathing increases alarmingly quickly, though somehow, simultaneously, his heart stops. He searches for something to say, something to do, and his eyes flicker over the newspaper in front of him. Nature section; London Zoo, page twenty-five.  
  
“Parrots,” he says abruptly. “ _Parrots,_ John.”  
  
“Oh,” John says. “Alright.” His voice rumbles against Sherlock’s body, and it feels like being wrapped in cosy blankets during a rainstorm.  
  
_What do I say now what do I say now what do I say what would John want me to say?_ __  
__  
“I solved it,” Sherlock says simply. _Perfect._  
  
He can feel the smile in his own voice, a sleepy satisfaction; he is so relaxed, so comfortable wrapped up in John, that he knows he could doze off right here in his lap.  
  
_Happy, safe, loved._  
  
“I love you,” John says.  
  
“I know you do,” Sherlock replies. And he does.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say it back. But when he climbs into bed next to John in the middle of the night, pulling the blankets over their heads, he kisses John on the forehead, and John lets him.  
  
He knows that John knows it, too.  
  
***  
  
John’s chest aches.  
  
It’s seven in the morning on a Tuesday. He’s been awake for five minutes; Sherlock has been awake all night, examining samples of proteobacteria beneath his microscope.

John stands in the sitting room, barely awake, and silently watches his Sherlock.  
  
The detective sits with his elbows on the kitchen table, spine showing bumpy through the blue silk of his dressing gown, half of him caught in the watery sunlight that bleeds into their kitchen. He peers intently through his microscope; one of his legs bouncing up and down quickly as he presses as close as he can get to the lens. It’s a tell-tale sign that he’s been awake for longer than anyone should be able to. That restless energy, leaking out of him in achingly human gestures like this one, when he thinks nobody’s watching him.  
  
John doesn’t know how long he stands there, bare feet cold on the lino, watching him work. It’s probably a long time, and yet John knows that he could do nothing else for the rest of his life, and be perfectly content.

Sherlock is his favorite sight in the world.

Finally, Sherlock glances up from the microscope and his gaze catches on John’s, and John very nearly gasps at the way the sunlight blends with his irises, turning them into quicksilver.

There is nothing going on and there is everything going on, and John feels that, right now, he could fly with the balloon that’s expanding in his chest.

“Sorry,” John breathes, timidly forcing the words out of his throat. “It’s just… the way the light is hitting you, and the way you’re hard at work, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and…” he pauses and swallows thickly. “Sherlock, I—“

Sherlock leans away from the microscope, pushing himself out of his chair, before silently standing and crossing over to John. He’s smiling; it’s soft around the edges, and makes him look both younger and older than he is. It’s the kind of smile that Sherlock doesn’t seem to know he can even make.  
  
“You _what,_ John?” Sherlock softly asks, though John knows he knows the answer; of course he does.  
  
But John has to say it. John  _wants_ to say it. So he looks Sherlock in the eye, giving him a tiny smile. “I love you.”  
  
Sherlock nods. “I know you do.” He slides silently forward on socked feet, and takes John’s face in his cool palms, and kisses him. And the clear morning sunlight passes over them, and warms them with its light, and this— _this_ is flying.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock knows John Watson loves him, now, and he knows he’s got to protect that. It’s so easy, after all, Sherlock thinks, to lose something like this.   
  
Things between the two of them remain practically the same (why fix something that isn’t broken?); and yet, different in subtle ways. Gentler. More thoughtful. There is more touching, more little things like texts and _thank yous_ and smiles and brushes of fingers against fingers.  
  
On a cold, late night in January, Sherlock is pressed along John’s side, huddled as close as two men can possibly be huddled when crouching behind a dumpster and hiding from three thieves with revolvers.

Sherlock is having trouble not talking.  
  
“If we continue along this path, we can outrun them, but if we stay here, they will probably pass us by without a second thought. Not exactly criminal masterminds, these men. The first of the lot seems to have returned recently from serving jail time for petty larceny, and it was his third offence, and one might think he’d have learned—“  
  
“ _Sherlock.”_ John’s mouth is just a breath away from Sherlock’s ear. “You need to stop talking right now, or they’re going to find us.” His lips brush Sherlock’s skin, freezing with the frigid air of London in January in the middle of the night.

Sherlock wonders: when did John become so close? And when, exactly, did it become so cold outside—so cold that Sherlock seems to have unknowingly and automatically wrapped himself around John’s warm body to combat the chilly air that surrounds them?  
  
Sherlock doesn’t know, exactly, but right now, right here, everything is utterly perfect.

Chasing criminals through London with the man he… with _John;_ both men breathing heavily, the adrenaline pumping, pumping through their veins, and John is here—so very close to him, and Sherlock can’t think of anything better than these three things: London, chasing criminals, and John.

Sherlock is beaming, and he doesn’t even try to hold it back as he burrows closer against his friend. He laughs, entirely too openly and entirely too loudly.

“Sorry,” he says, covering his mouth with his own hand as he shakes with mirth.  “Sorry, sorry, sorry, but _John—”_ __  
__  
John’s body is stiff, undoubtedly due to the cold, or perhaps because Sherlock is not doing such an excellent job of _not_ drawing attention to the two of them, but he doesn’t care, because he is happy, and he wants everyone in London to know it.  
  
He wants _John_ to know it.  
  
So he turns his face up towards John, and he sees the streetlights reflecting in his pupils. Sherlock is surprised to see the near ecstasy on John’s face: unexpectedly content and calm; possibly just as much as Sherlock feels.

 _John, do you know how incredibly happy I am?_  
  
He doesn’t even get a chance to say it.  
  
“I love you,” John whispers.

He seals his mouth to Sherlock’s before Sherlock can even take a breath—perhaps, if only, to silence him. Sherlock melts even closer; chest filling with enough warmth that he completely forgets about the January breeze. He falls into John, and John holds him up, unflinchingly. Sherlock knows he always will.

Distantly, the sound of three pairs of running feet bypasses them entirely.  
  
When John pulls away, he’s gasping for air, but he’s smiling, and his cheeks are pink with something more than the cold.  
  
“I know you do,” Sherlock replies.

  
***  
  
Angelo’s is different now that John is allowed to look at Sherlock the way he’s always wanted to.  
  
Dinner. Chicken parmesan with merlot. Half past ten at night; the alcohol is buzzing in his veins. Angelo has just brought a candle to the table, and this time, neither of them argue about it.  
  
Candlelight suits Sherlock, John thinks. It makes him glow with a warm, fiery light; the wine they’re drinking is darkening his cheeks, too, and he looks like he would be hot to the touch.

John is having a very difficult time not touching.  
  
“So this is a date, then?” John asks.  
  
“Well, isn’t it?” asks Sherlock.  
  
“I suppose so. Though I’m not entirely sure the _first_ time wasn’t.”  
  
Sherlock blinks back at him. “No. I’m not entirely sure, either.”  
  
They laugh and talk as they always do, but it flows between them more freely now, almost completely uninhibited by past barriers of shame or fear. John leans in closer across the table; Sherlock does too. Their voices mix like the string section of a symphony, low and high, light and dark, and their laughter trips and tangles in the air between them in waves of warmth.  
  
“I knew that night; even then.” John remarks. “I must have made it very apparent.”  
  
“You did,” Sherlock agrees, because it’s obvious what John means.  
  
“Did _you_ know?” John asks.  
  
Sherlock pauses, thinking before he speaks. “I was distracted by the case,” he says, “and your words caught me off guard, but...if I was able to go back and redo it now, it would have ended differently.”  
  
John’s breath stops in his chest as Sherlock simply looks at him. “Yeah?” John asks. “How?”

They gaze across the table silently at one another, each drinking the other in deeper than they ever have before; and when Sherlock stretches an arm across the table and takes John’s hand in his, John is helpless but to lean even closer.

Sherlock kisses him; his smile is wide and rose-coloured; his lips taste like merlot and promises.  
  
“I love you,” John whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, his eyes still closed. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand in his. Just to be sure he’s really there.  
  
Sherlock breathes out a long, shaky sigh; John wants suddenly to be as far from here as he can be, to pick Sherlock up and hold him and take him home and curl into a corner of their bed and never leave.  
  
“I know you do.”

***  
  
Sherlock hasn’t slept in nearly seventy hours, and he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten.

“You have to fucking sleep, Sherlock,” John informs him for the twentieth time. He sits next to him on the sofa, and this time, Sherlock doesn’t even breathe; involuntarily and instantly sinking his head into John’s lap.  
  
And he can’t argue, not now. How can he, when he is folded up in John, and so, so warm?  
  
“Why are you always taking care of me, John?” Sherlock asks. “It’s not as though it’s something you’re obligated to do.”  
  
“I do it for many reasons, Sherlock. Because even though you’re a genius, you’re also an idiot, and you refuse to do so yourself. Because although it’s not an obligation, it’s something that feels completely natural, taking care of you; more natural than breathing. Because I want to, and I always will, and you can count on me to do that, no matter how much time goes by; no matter where life takes us, here I will always be.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyelids are heavy as the words swell within him, and sleep begins to overtake his mind and body.  
  
“Most of all,” John says, leaning down and brushing his lips against Sherlock’s temple, “I do it because I love you.”  
  
Everything else in Sherlock’s world falls away; all but the words John utters against his skin.  
  
“I know you do.” The sentence pours out of Sherlock’s tired mouth, familiar and sleepy and sure as he drifts into slumber.  
  
***  
  
John doesn’t see it coming, because John is distracted.  
  
Sherlock is running at full speed in front of him, and John hasn’t been in this particular position since they began doing… whatever it is that they’re doing. John is rather enjoying the view.  
  
Sherlock cuts a dashing figure at all times, but when he’s hot on the tail of someone bad, when the thrill of the chase is electrifying his limbs and setting him off like a rocket—

He’s dazzling.  
  
John follows him dutifully, but with a bit less dedication to speed than he normally employs. Sherlock has this one in the bag, that much is evident; in about five seconds he’s going to tackle the man he’s chasing to the ground, and whip out a pair of handcuffs from somewhere, and then he and John will go home and have tea and snog on the sofa, and—  
  
_Pain._ White-hot, blooming like a flower from his temple and sinking its roots through his limbs.  
  
John crashes to the earth. He comes down on his side, tripping over his own feet and landing on his arm, but it’s his bad shoulder, and it gives way almost immediately. He slams off of the cold concrete, all of the breath exploding out of him in half a second, and god, he can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t—  
  
Someone above him is shouting. The sound of feet scuffing on the ground behind him. The wet, meaty sound of someone’s nose shattering, the high wail of that sort of pain.  
  
John cannot physically make himself turn around; he thinks that if he moves even one bone in his body, his head might dissolve into shrapnel.  
  
There’s another wail, and then Sherlock appears in John’s line of vision. Everything about him is all wrong; his face and his hands and his voice, all twisted and raw like a piece of rusty wire. John wants to sit up and hold Sherlock close to his chest, but he still can’t make himself move; he can’t make himself _breathe._ __  
  
“ _John,”_ Sherlock is saying. “John, John, John, John, John,” over and over again like he’s forgotten every other word. There must be something horribly wrong, because John has never seen that look on Sherlock’s face; that look of pure, abject terror, that look of absolute tragedy that hurts John down to his core.  
  
“John, _please.”_  
  
That’s what it takes. John’s breath comes back in a burning gust and he gasps, sucking in lungful after lungful of oxygen as he tries to reach towards Sherlock, aiming for any part of the devastated man that he can grab.  
  
“John,” Sherlock gasps, bending and sliding his palms around John’s cheeks, holding his head still. “Please tell me you’re alright, John, please— ”  
  
John grunts. Speaking is hard. Breathing is hard. Looking at Sherlock, expression still fraught with panic, is hard. “I’m fine. Sherlock. I’m fine.”  
  
Sherlock is the one having trouble breathing now. He looks like he might be hyperventilating; his hands are flitting from John’s bloodied temple to his heaving chest to his cold, tear-stained cheeks, over and over again in an unbreakable cycle. John struggles to a seated position as the pain in his head dulls just a bit, and Sherlock scrambles to kneel before John, wrapping his arms bracingly around John’s waist.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says again, and he chokes back another sob that rises in his throat. He pulls John to him, pressing his lips to John’s forehead.

_“John, you cannot ever leave me. I need you here, John, I need you here…”_

John lets Sherlock hold him. He lets Sherlock chant these words into his skin, and then he shifts their positions and he holds Sherlock back. He lets Sherlock shudder against him.  
  
John loves him, god how he loves him.  
  
“I love you,” Sherlock says, his face against John’s collar bone. His breath has evened out some, but his grip hasn’t lessened. Just the way John wants it.  
  
“Yeah.” John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock pulls him even closer. “I know you do.”


	9. You Shouldn't Have Come Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all that’s happened, Sherlock doesn’t want to go on, but John comes back and gives him a reason.
> 
> ***   
> _  
> Leave her, Sherlock means. You say that you choose me; show me you do. Come back to me, and let me hold you like this, and don’t think about her and don’t touch her and don't look at her, and take my hand and run with me across dirty rooftops and hidden streets every day until we die together, as it should be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 Prompt: “You Shouldn't Have Come Here."
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3
> 
> Note: This fic takes place after the events of The Abominable Bride

Sherlock is a galaxy, infinite stars hung within him, everything fit inside of him with nothing for him to fit into. Sherlock is a solitary sailboat, bobbing on a sea of crashing, storm-grey waves, his sails gone and his hull splintered. Sherlock is the sun, burning and burning and burning, unparalleled. Sherlock is a dying gust of wind, a rotting seed buried deep in the cold, loamy earth, a bird at the base of a topaz cliff with two ruined wings.

Sherlock is alone. Alone. Alone.

_Alone is what I have._

Heart beating fast, thrumming like the back legs of a jackrabbit running from a hound, breath like so many stones caught in his lungs, in his throat, on his tongue, skin shifting and cracking and blistering and itching and dancing and pulling across his bones.

_Alone is what protects me._

He’s still falling from the roof of St. Bart’s, his coat spread like wings behind him. The ground is getting closer only very slowly; he’s almost suspended in time, here, falling and falling and falling. The fear of hitting the sidewalk below, the fear of his bones splinteringsplinteringsplitting and his skull fracturingfracturingfracturing and his blood spillingspillingspilling—the fear of bouncing like a rubber ball and then shattering still—the fear—fear—he’s afraid, _he’s so afraid and nobody can ever know and he’ll never tell, he’ll touch down and his blood will spill and he’ll stand and walk into the darkcoldbadalone and he might as well stay, this time, mightn’t he, because he’s just going to end up here where he is anyway in the end, always alone, alone, alonealonealonealone and none of it will be worth it, no John no John—John_

_John—_

“John, John, John—”

—in words that are small and stuck and impaired with this aching swell of sadness that has risen up in him—

“I’m right here, love,” John soothes. His hands are cool on Sherlock’s face, and his voice is warm in Sherlock’s head. “I’m right here. I didn’t leave you.”

Sherlock is dying. His heart is going to break his ribs and explode out of his chest, soon, the drugs he took on that plane are going to shrink his veins until there is nothing but chalk in his body. This is why he’s allowed to have John in his head; this is why John in his head is here, instead of drowning under those crashing grey waves, instead of standing on the top of that topaz cliff.

“You always leave me,” Sherlock says, because this is John in his head, and John in his head can’t be hurt by anything despicable that Sherlock says or does. Sherlock turns his cheek further into John’s palm and lets himself cry, because when he’s dead, there won’t be enough of him left for tears. “And I always leave you.”

John is silent. His hands are still.

“But I came back,” he whispers, and his lips dance across Sherlock’s forehead, hot and dry like a blessing. “And so did you.”

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John hovers above him. He is pale and sad-looking. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. The corners of his mouth are turned down. His eyes are wet, and bluer than the falls that Sherlock Holmes jumped from. Tumultuous.

He’s clean shaven, and dressed like he was dressed on the tarmac when they said goodbye in their fractured, stilted, inefficient way; he’s dressed like he was dressed when he helped Sherlock into a cab and left Mary behind them, her bright red coat making her blond hair look like the sickly colour of papyrus; he’s dressed like he was when he brought Sherlock into 221b and laid him upon the sofa, and then disappeared downstairs and didn’t come back.

He isn’t in Sherlock’s head.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock says again, and this time the word is nothing more than a puff of John-shaped air falling from between his parched lips.

Something in John’s face breaks. With a noise that sounds like a sob, John rises from his kneeling position on the floor and climbs onto the sofa, gathering Sherlock into his arms as he does. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead again and this time he doesn’t take them back; this time one of his hands rests in the dip of Sherlock’s waist and one holds him gently at the nape of his neck, and John is trembling.

Sherlock’s trembling too, quivering, shaking with the drugs that pound his transport and the sentiment that threatens to drown him in his own vessel. He feels hot and cold and hot again, all in the time it takes him to draw one tiny gasp of John-flavored air into his paper thin lungs. His head lolls forward involuntarily, and he buries it under John’s chin, fingers coming up to grasp at whatever part of John he can reach.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he whispers.

John is holding Sherlock closer than Sherlock has ever been held by anyone. “I choose you,” he says. He curls his fingers so gently around Sherlock’s skin that his whole body throbs with an ache he’s too familiar with.

_You chose her._

_“_ I choose _you_ ,” John repeats: fierce, fervent.

Sherlock opens his mouth to tell him to leave, like they always do; to tell him that Sherlock will ruin him, will break him, will love him so hard that he crumbles if John gives him even a particle of a chance. Instead he says: “John. Come home.”

 _Leave her,_ he means. _You say that you choose me; show me you do. Come back to me, and let me hold you like this, and don’t think about her and don’t touch her and don’t look at her, and take my hand and run with me across dirty rooftops and hidden streets every day until we die together, as it should be._

Again, John’s voice is silent, but his being is not. He shifts so that he surrounds Sherlock, shelling him in and melding them together at once. “I will,” he says, and his voice is so soft that Sherlock can only tell what he’s saying through the vibrations of his tone. “Sherlock. I promise.”

And he does.


	10. You Think This Troubles Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s noisy upstairs neighbour has just moved in, and he has some unique methods for demanding John’s attention.
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> John thinks he might cry. Instead, he flails himself out of his bed, stomps to his wardrobe, recovers every blanket and pillow he can find, and burrows himself beneath them all in an attempt to drown out the noise._
> 
> _God, he just wants sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 prompt: “You Think This Troubles Me?”
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour. ❤️

One week ago, John Watson’s new upstairs neighbour moved in, and John hasn’t slept since.

And John hasn’t even _met_ the noisy arsehole, he hasn’t even _seen_ him—but he hears him. Oh, he hears him.

On Monday, past ten at night, it’s the Irish Riverdance. Not only the music—though it blares so aggressively it shakes the walls with its lively, upbeat melody. No; apparently, John’s upstairs neighbour is an extremely talented dancer as well, and quick on his toes. And he’s got unbelievable stamina—not stopping for three full hours.

Thursday night, it’s some awful American sitcom rumbling through the ceiling until four in the morning; complete with knee-slapping situational irony and terrible background laughing tracks.

Heavy steps cascading above John at all hours of the day, every day, leading John to thoroughly believe his neighbour may actually be some type of large zoo creature.

Yelling at midnight in various languages—the man is apparently fluent in French, Polish, Aramaic, Russian, Korean, and Mandarin Chinese. Or at least, John suspects, he knows all of the explicit phrases.

And then there’s the dog—the barking, yapping dog, how can he forget that? John is  _sure_ the landlady doesn’t allow pets, and yet, he’s also absolutely sure he hears it.

Tonight, it’s the alarm clock, which has been going off upstairs for upwards of an hour—so very loudly that John may as well have a wailing ambulance inside his bedroom.

“It’s one in the morning, for fuck’s sake!”’ John grumbles from beneath the pillow he’s stuffed his head under. “Who the Hell even _sets_ their alarm for this time?!”

He is seething with frustration; he can feel it boiling in his veins, hot like an active volcano.

“Turn. It. _Off!”_ he barks, yanking his pillow off of his head and launching it at the ceiling.

The alarm clock stops.

John lets out a heaving sigh of relief. “Oh, thank—“

The alarm clock starts again.

John thinks he might cry. Instead, he flails himself out of his bed, stomps to his wardrobe, recovers every blanket and pillow he can find, and burrows himself beneath them all in an attempt to drown out the noise.

God, he just wants sleep.

***

The next day after work, John trudges down the hallway to his flat, dragging himself to his front door, and he is tired. He is so, so tired. It’s as though he hasn’t slept in weeks and weeks.

He sets his hand on his door handle, and the instant he does, the noise from upstairs begins.

This time, however, it’s different.

The sound of a violin wafts down through the flat above, and it’s golden and mellow and rich and melancholy and _lovely._

It stops John dead in his tracks.

“Hm,” John mutters approvingly to himself, and he wanders through his doorway; the tranquil, otherworldly melody echoing in his flat and in his ears. He plops down onto his sofa, falling asleep before his head hits the cushion.

He sleeps like the dead that night, and the melody haunts his dreams.

***

The next morning, John sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, and he doesn’t awaken until half past ten.

When he does, it’s to the sound of an alarm clock; but as John slowly comes to, he realises that it’s not HIS alarm clock he’s hearing.

“No,” he whispers softly and sleepily.  _“Don’t.”_

The alarm proceeds its ringing for fourteen minutes.

John groans, tossing and turning and kicking and hitting and doing everything short of throwing a temper tantrum.

That’s when he hears the gunshots ringing out from the room above him. One. Two. Three. Each bullet ricocheting against the south-facing wall.

His heart leaps and clenches with panic. He bolts off of the sofa, and before he can even think about what he’s doing, he’s darting upstairs, stopping short just in front of his neighbour’s door.

He lifts his hand to knock, nearly in a frenzy, and that’s when the violin music starts again. Light and bright and enchanting this time, billowing like a cloud from beneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

John feels the weight lifting from his entire body. It’s alright, he thinks. His neighbour is likely to be a dangerous, insane, multilingual dancing elephant who wakes up at past midnight and plays the violin beautifully and has just _murdered_ someone, but it’s alright.

John knocks.

The music stops (a fact that John unexpectedly and immediately regrets). John hears footsteps approaching (decidedly light and not of the gigantic mammal variety). Then, the door opens, and John has to contain a gasp, because he hadn’t expected his rude, loud, obnoxious neighbour to be quite so… gorgeous.

“Hi,” John breathes, or perhaps it comes out in a tiny whimper, but that’s not going to be something John talks about, ever. “I’m—“

“John Watson, yes,” the man interrupts, his voice as mellow and melodic as the sound of his violin. “Is the music troubling you?”

John huffs, his eyebrows flying upwards. He takes a half-step towards the man, spurred by the sudden bout of tangible indignation at the ridiculousness of the man’s question.

“You think _this_ troubles me?” John’s breathing begins to quicken and he can feel beads of sweat forming at his temples. “How about the bloody Irish dancing at all hours, and the loud music, and the television, and the stomping, and the barking dog—“

“—I don’t have a dog, John, I simply enjoy documentaries on various types of animals—“

“—and the ALARM CLOCK, who the fuck sets their alarm for _midnight—_ “

“—I have to set timers for all of my data points—“

“—Just who do you think you are, anyway?—“

“—The name’s Sherlock Holmes—“

“—and how did you know _my_ name?—“

“—easy, I steal your newspaper—“

“—and the bullets? Christ, have you been shooting the walls?—“

”Yes.”

“Why?!”

The man sighs with resignation, taking a step forward himself; and he meets John very deliberately with his pale eyes, his expression turning serious. “Nothing else worked.”

John becomes very aware of the man’s proximity, and his own breath, already shallow from anger, quickens considerably. “Worked?” He frowns, his fingers twitching at his sides. “What do you mean _worked?_ Worked to do what?”

The man holds his gaze, and it, too, is as hypnotic as the music he plays, and John can feel his resolve wilting.

“I wanted you to come upstairs, John, so that I could ask you to join me for tea.”

John chuckles, shaking his head disbelievingly, his mouth hanging open. “For God’s sake, why the Hell didn’t you just come downstairs and ask?”

With that, a tiny smirk forms at the corner of the man’s heart-shaped mouth, and he spins to saunter back into the flat.

“Simple,” he says over his shoulder. “I enjoy the thrill of the chase.”

John watches the beautiful man. “Sherlock Holmes, you said?”

“Yes.”

“You are absolutely mad, aren’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t turn his head, but he stops walking, and somehow, John can tell there is a smile on his face.

“John, are you going to simply stand there, or are you going to come inside?”

John takes two steps in, shutting the door behind him.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah.” There’s really no other answer. “Can’t really say no to a murderous, dancing elephant.”

Sherlock finally turns his head over his shoulder, giving John a puzzling look. “Pardon?” he asks.

John grins. “Nothing. Yeah, tea would be lovely.”


	11. But I Will Never Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And. Oh. Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by unicornpoe❤️

Sherlock Holmes is not a man who forgets things.

Not _important_ things, that is. Things like the boiling point of lithium, and the brand of mousse that best enhances his curls, and John’s favorite kind of cheese. It seems to him that this is perfectly reasonable; why fill his head with unimportant drivel when the things he _does_ have in there are so very, very vital?

John, however, doesn’t seem to agree with this point of view.

“It’s the _solar system,_ Sherlock,” he says with a half fond, half exasperated sigh. He’s leaning against the kitchen table with his arms crossed over his chest, just looking down at Sherlock. Smiling a bit.

This is a conversation that they have had every few years or so since John first moved in, and the answer Sherlock provides is always the same:

“It’s _boring._ ”

“I thought you thought the stars are beautiful,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t look at him, but something inside of him warms at the fact that John remembers this. It was a long, long time ago that Sherlock commented on the beauty of the night sky.

“Just because I find something beautiful doesn’t necessarily mean that I need to know everything about it,” Sherlock says, using a pair of tweezers to prod at a sliver of spleen. “I am occasionally satisfied living with mystery.”

John snorts at that, loudly, and doesn’t deign it with any other sort of answer.

“And besides,” Sherlock continues, hitting the spleen with a hammer he stole from Mrs. Hudson and raising his voice to be heard over the banging, “I have to leave room for things that matter. I can’t cram my mind palace full of useless stuff and expect to remember the way you like your tea.”

John is quiet beside him. Sherlock thinks at first that this is due to the loud, meaty thudding of the hammer on flesh, but when he stops pounding away and looks up at John, what he sees confuses him.

John looks… surprised. Except that doesn’t add up; Sherlock has explained the way his mind palace works countless times, and no matter what he might say when he’s in a strop, John isn’t _really_ an idiot. John is quite smart, actually. Probably he would be the smartest person in London if Sherlock didn’t exist. Probably.

“You remember the way I take my tea?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock blinks at him. “That’s what I said.”

“Sorry,” John says automatically, his voice still strange and soft. “I know you hate repeating yourself.” He stares at Sherlock with blue, blue eyes. That’s another thing Sherlock will never forget; the exact shade of John Watson’s eyes in accordance to his every mood. Sherlock has never seen this shade before, however, and he takes a moment to catalogue it, placing it in a little grey box with a question mark on the lid. “I know you hate repeating yourself.”

“Quite right.”

  
“Yeah.”

“I also remember every single shade your eyes have ever been when you look at me,” Sherlock says without really knowing why. This is useless information. Only… well, but John seems highly interested, and Sherlock likes when John is highly interested in him, and so he continues. “And all the different colours in your hair. It isn’t blond, you know, although that’s what lazy people with no imagination like to say. I remember the ways you say ‘Sherlock’ so I can always know how you feel, and I remember what jumper you wore on the day that we first met, and I remember your middle name and that you don’t like ferrets and that sometimes, when you smile at me, it means ‘Sherlock, you are brilliant,’ and sometimes it means ‘Sherlock, you are funny,’ and sometimes I can’t tell at all what it means, like now. And. Oh. Everything.” 

Sherlock stops. He talked too much. His chest feels tight and hot and and his neck hurts from staring up at John for so long, and John is giving him the smile that he doesn’t understand, so Sherlock puts his hammer down and strips off his gloves and tips forward, his forehead pressing against John’s stomach, his arms slinging around John’s hips. 

John is warm. He remembers that, too.

“Sherlock,” John says, and then he puts his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. Yes. That is. Quite nice. Sherlock thinks that he would like this to continue for as long as possible.

“Yes?” Sherlock answers.

“I don’t remember as many things as you,” John murmurs. One of his hands cups the back of Sherlock’s skull very, very softly, and Sherlock’s sighs. “But I will never forget anything about you, either. Even if I forget my own name, I will remember you.”

Sherlock tilts his head up so that his chin is resting against John’s stomach, and John smiles down at him.

“I think,” Sherlock says slowly, “that I have figured out what that smile means.”

“Have you?” John asks. He touches Sherlock’s shoulder and somehow Sherlock’s whole body seems to be attuned to the wishes and whims of John Watson because he stands, keeping John in his hold. John is smiling up at him now. John is lovely. “And what have you decided?”

“I think,” Sherlock says, and his heart is beating _so quickly_ , “that that smile means you love me.”

John beams. He raises up on his toes and lightly, lightly, lightly brushes his lips against Sherlock’s.

“You’ve always been smart.”


	12. Who Could Do This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loves John and loses him, but they dance together in the end.
> 
> ***  
>  _John whispers to Sherlock that he has missed him, and Sherlock asks him to repeat himself, just to be sure that it’s real, and not imagined.  
>     
> “Sherlock. I’ve missed you.”_
> 
> _Sherlock turns his head into John, and the words pour out of his mouth and into John’s ear:_
> 
> _“I’ve missed you more than words can even convey; acutely and wholly and urgently. I never thought it possible to feel such a deep loss from someone, much less someone who is still alive. John, please tell me you’re going to stay. Please. I don’t think I can finish this song on my own.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 prompt: “Who Could Do This?”
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour ❤️
> 
> Also, this chapter is dedicated to [JupiterEyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupitereyed/pseuds/JupiterEyed), who gave me the inspiration for the story ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> THIS IS A TSOT FIX-IT AND THERE’S A HAPPY ENDING :D

Sherlock Holmes has always loved dancing; this is a fact as true as any proven mathematical theorem, and yet, for the most part, a fact that remains hidden.

Sherlock Holmes has always loved John Watson; this is a fact truer than anything Einstein or Newton have ever discovered, and yet, it is a fact that will never be told.

To the outside world, Sherlock Holmes is a scientist and logician first and foremost; a cold and unromantic man who thinks very much and feels very little.

Dancing is an endeavour of the passionate and emotional and the artistic—and nobody can ever know that this part of Sherlock exists. And John Watson’s happiness is a far more valuable part of life than relativity or gravity, anyway.

But there is a special room in Sherlock’s Mind Palace that he has built when he wants these truths to be told; in this particular room, John knows that Sherlock loves him. They dance together to Bach and Mozart and Strauss and Paganini; they dance to everyone, and for every reason.

They dance together when they are happy and they dance together when they are sad; they dance because they don’t know what else to do. They dance because Sherlock loves him and he doesn’t have the words to convey it, so he lets the music and movement tell his story for him. They dance because here, John loves Sherlock back, and so that they will always be close to one another, and nobody will leave. 

Outside of this room, in the harshness of reality, John is getting married in one month. He is marrying someone who provides him with all of the things that he would never allow Sherlock to give him back.

In this world, John and Sherlock don’t dance together. 

“She just told me she wants me to take dancing lessons before the wedding,” John says from his armchair; his voice is tired, his red-rimmed eyes clouded with frustration. “One month left, and she tells me _now?_ How will I find a dance instructor? Who could do this on such short notice?”

Sherlock doesn’t think about his answer—or perhaps he had already thought about it too much before—because his words are unbidden and automatic:

“I could, John.”

John looks up from his laptop, forehead crinkling with mild confusion. “You could...what?”

Sherlock doesn’t blink as he gazes over at John from his microscope and his samples of freezer-burned kidneys. “I could teach you how to dance.”

John laughs.

In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, John only laughs when he is feeling carefree and joyous; but Sherlock hasn’t seen John joyous since he’d returned from the dead.

Not even with her.

Sherlock doesn’t reply to John, but he stares back at him meaningfully, his expression unfaltering.

“What?” John leans forward in his seat. “You’re serious?”

“I’m a trained dancer, John,” Sherlock says, the confession bounding out of him in a way not completely unpleasant. “I took lessons for nearly twenty years.”

“Wow,” John says, his voice stunned. This time, there is a hint of the joy that Sherlock sometimes sees in his Mind Palace. “Sherlock, I’m always learning new things about you, aren’t I?”

John will never know all things, of course. He can’t.

“We can close the curtains,” Sherlock says. “You don’t have to worry. Nobody will ever know.”

“That isn’t exactly a requirement,” says John. “I don’t mind.”

But Sherlock minds. Because this is a truth he is not quite prepared to share with a world outside of his Mind Palace and 221B.

“So that’s a yes, then?” Sherlock stands. He doesn’t wait for an answer; he walks to his record player, fumbling through his collection as John watches on, setting the needle down to play the music.

Sherlock closes the curtains. The room around them is dim and heavy with the music and the realness of what they are about the do.

Sherlock turns and wanders over to John, who is still watching him with curious amusement, and he wordlessly extends a hand to him.

“Moon River,” John says. _Joy._  “My favourite waltz.”

Sherlock knows this—of course he knows this—they had danced together to this song countless times in his Mind Palace.

John takes Sherlock by the hand, and Sherlock’s world collapses around him.

Their bodies instantly wrap around one another, timidly, as though it is at once natural and terrifying for them to be doing what they’re doing.

“You’ve taught me many things,” John mutters as his body relaxes and he leans his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “Never thought this was going to be one of them.”

It’s just as Sherlock had imagined it: the smell of John’s soft hair, of his heart beating against Sherlock’s chest. In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, however, John’s heart beats only for him; and in reality, it beats for another.

—

It’s been nearly two weeks since John’s wedding, and Sherlock doesn’t think about him every day anymore. In fact, sometimes, if he is wrapped up in a particularly distracting experiment, he might even go for a day and a half.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Sunrise.

High noon.

The way John’s hair feels when it tickles his cheek.

The scent of the aftershave on his neck; the way his eyes flicker when he’s laughing joyously and not ironically or out of frustration.

When Sherlock does think about John, now, there is a vacant space in his chest, and it feels as though it’s been filled with oil and mud. When this happens, Sherlock closes his eyes tightly and imagines a melody in his head; and he visits their room in his Mind Palace.

In this room, Sherlock has one arm around John’s shoulder and the other around his waist, holding him in a way that only he is permitted to do. Here, John rests his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder, and he doesn’t ever leave. And Sherlock is safe to enjoy the music that flows through his veins, and the unabashed love in his heart. And he is not ashamed to love John, and he is not afraid to dance, and the two of them don’t hide behind closed curtains.

Here, Sherlock whispers in John’s ear over and over again: “You are my treasure. I love you more than anything. Please let me keep you. Please dance with me until the sun sets, and for many more sunsets after.” And Sherlock never dances alone again.

“Sherlock.” There is a hushed breath upon which his name is barely audible; but it shakes Sherlock from his Mind Palace all the same, ripping him back into the presence of 221B.

Sherlock realises, like the way it often happens, that he has been dancing to the music in his own head.

But this time, John is there. Real and bright and beautiful—ethereal, like the ghost of a celestial body, or like city lights surrounded by thundering storm clouds.

Sherlock exhales a word that he intends to be John’s name, but he chokes on the word before it can form.

“You seem like you could use a partner,” John says.

Sherlock doesn’t think John knows how true those words are. Because Sherlock needs someone, but not just anyone—he needs _him._ He needs John Watson.

Nothing else exists between that moment and the moment that John is holding him, and that Sherlock is holding him back, desperately, and it’s happening, god this is happening, and John is whispering into his shoulder that he had made a mistake and he and her are over and god can he please come back home, and they are dancing, and it’s more than Sherlock could ever have imagined.

Sherlock simply says: “Yes.”

“What is it we’re listening to?” John asks as they sway together.

“Moon River.”

“Ah, my favourite.”

“I know,” says Sherlock. “I was playing it for you.”

The two men continue to cling to one another, the melody strong in Sherlock’s head—but the feeling of John’s chest pressed against his torso is even stronger; his heart beating fast and loud (100 beats per minute, just like the song).

John whispers to Sherlock that he has missed him, and Sherlock asks him to repeat himself, just to be sure that it’s real, and not imagined.

“Sherlock. I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock turns his head into John, and the words pour out of his mouth and into John’s ear:

“I’ve missed you more than words can even convey; acutely and wholly and urgently. I never thought it possible to feel such a deep loss from someone, much less someone who is still alive. John, please tell me you’re going to stay. Please. I don’t think I can finish this song on my own.”

John sighs deeply, but says nothing for much, much too long.

He unties his hands from Sherlock’s waist and allows them to wander roughly up Sherlock’s back, up his neck, finding themselves tangled in Sherlock’s curls; repeating the motion in reverse, gliding down his scalp and shoulders and back as they move together in tandem.

And Sherlock realises that there are teardrops forming just above his bottom lashes, so he blinks harshly in an effort to hold them back—and yet, one treacherous, telling drop of moisture falls from his face and lands on the soft skin of John’s cheek.

“Hey,” John says raggedly—his voice is trembling, too. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him away. “There’ll be no more of that, you hear me?”

Sherlock can’t say a thing, because he has lost himself in the story that John’s eyes are telling him: a story of pain, fear, doubt, loss, and guilt. But the longer Sherlock studies them, the more he begins to see something deeper:

Joy. Affection. Happiness. Calm. Peace.

John raises his hands to cradle Sherlock’s face like he’s something precious, and he bends forward to press their lips together.

In reality, this was never supposed to happen.

But it is.

A choked-off sob, or a moan, or possibly both, and possibly from each of the men, the two of them fully collapsing into the kiss. Sherlock takes John’s lower lip between his automatically, tasting its flavour. John presses Sherlock’s head into his own, deepening the kiss in such an all-consuming manner that it feels as though both of them are falling and flying at the same time.

Sherlock slides and tangles their tongues together, commandingly and searchingly and achingly—god, how he has ached for him, how he has ached for _this._

John groans, his hands tugging desperately at Sherlock’s hair and sliding up and down and everywhere at once. He is whispering Sherlock’s name and Sherlock is whispering his, and their breaths are heavy and loud like the weight of the feelings being poured into each other’s mouths.

“The curtains,” Sherlock mumbles suddenly against John’s lips.

“Are they open?” John says back, kissing him softly.

“Yes.”

“Good. Leave them that way.”

Sherlock’s mouth crashes back into John’s, and he thinks—he _knows_ —that he will never be able to stop kissing this man. He curls his fingers around every centimetre of John that he can reach, and he cannot hold himself back, and the way John moves against him tells Sherlock that he doesn’t want to ever stop, either.

“Sherlock,” John says between delicate kisses on Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock’s jaw, Sherlock’s temple. “I won’t. Leave you. You know. I’m going to stay, this time. And I’m going to dance with you no matter what the song. No matter what the steps, or the melody, or the tempo, I will figure it out— _we_ will figure it out, and we will dance together until we’ve got no more music left in us.”

“John Watson.” Sherlock buries his face in John’s downy-soft hair. “I will continue to make music for you, and only for you, until I can no longer breathe.”

And as the sunlight shines in through the open curtains of their flat, it wraps them in its golden warmth as they begin to play their very own song.


	13. Try Harder, Next Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, you,” John says in surprise, although not displeasure. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, you cheater.”
> 
> Sherlock makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat and pulls John closer. He turns so that his face is buried against John’s shoulder and mutters, “Happy?” into his t-shirt. “Can’t see anything now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 Prompt: “Try Harder, Next Time.”
> 
> This chapter was co-written by both FinAmour and unicornpoe ❤️❤️
> 
> We like to call this: Scrabble with innuendo and accidental cuddling ❤️
> 
> Also, please try not to think too much about our blatant scrabble inaccuracies. We were too distracted by the pretty boys kissing. We promise to try harder, next time. ;)

There isn’t much one can do in 221B when the power goes out during a windstorm. No research can be done once the laptop batteries are dead; the refrigerator door can’t be opened too often, lest the body parts spoil. The telly can’t be turned on for Sherlock to yell inanities at, and it’s far too dark for him to use a microscope. So, to keep Sherlock sane, and from shooting holes in everything, John comes up with a simple plan:

Chinese takeout and board games.

“Cluedo?” Sherlock suggests, his interest piqued.

“No,” John immediately responds; a rush of residual panic at the mere _mention_ of that particular game. _“_ You know that Cluedo has been banned in 221B since the last time.”

Sherlock pouts—he actually _pouts_. John just looks at him, attempting to seem unaffected.

Sherlock finally sighs. “Monopoly?”

John feels a second rush of panic—this one tinged with high levels of exasperation. “No. Whenever we play _that_ , all you do is throw the thimble and top hat into jail repeatedly,” he points out. “That’s not how the game is played at all.”

Sherlock looks at him balefully. “That’s how it _should_ be played, John.”

John shakes his head. “Nope. Next.”

“Operation?” Sherlock asks, somewhat hopeful.

John laughs. “Sherlock, I was an actual  _army surgeon_.” He allows himself to be the slightest bit smug. “There would be no contest if we played that.”

“ _Fine,”_ Sherlock huffs at him. “Scrabble?”

“Oh.” John pauses. That might actually be... “Yes.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at John, a clear challenge in his silver gaze. He looks suddenly excited, more enthusiastic than John’s seen him since the last triple homicide—and, well, the fact that board games get Sherlock to look at him like _that_ is something that John is going to need to remember later.

“You sound rather confident, John,” Sherlock adds, intrigued.

“I _am_ confident, Sherlock.“ John raises his eyebrows, meeting Sherlock’s eyes across the little bit of space between them. “Because I just happen to be good at word games.  _Very_ good.” He smiles half a smile; his own version of a challenge that he knows Sherlock will be unable to resist.

“It sounds as though you feel you can beat me,” Sherlock says, “and that is a challenge I’m willing to take on.”

Sherlock can be quite predictable at times.

“Good.” A smile grows and spreads across John’s cheeks. “Just because you’re a _genius_ doesn’t mean you’re better than me at everything, you know.” He winks. “You may actually end up surprised.”

The two men lower themselves down to sit on the middle of the cold floor of 221B, and John unfolds the board as Sherlock methodically sets out the letter tiles. They don’t meet eyes again until everything is in order—and when they do, their expressions remain cold and focussed.

Poker face.

John knows that Sherlock’s always been pants at poker.

They draw their first tiles: John, a Q. Sherlock, a P. Sherlock’s first move.

Sherlock looks down at his letters for a long moment. John has lit candles and spread them about the flat in the absence of electricity, and the firelight plays in dancing orange shadows across Sherlock’s high cheekbones and his dark pupils.

As John stares, he wonders if perhaps he hadn’t accidentally orchestrated a diversion tactic against himself with those flickering flames.

Sherlock plays his first word with long, deft fingers: PLOWED _._ 47 points.

John stares for a second, then nods tightly. Very good move, of course.

Sherlock looks up and smiles at John, the small, tender kind of smile that means he’s genuinely pleased with himself but trying to hide it behind an aura of smug.

John finds himself wishing that 1. Sherlock wouldn’t do that and 2. He himself wasn’t so _damn distracted by it._

Sighing with put-on resignation, John plays his first word: FOX. 34 points.

Sherlock snorts. Loudly. “Good play,” he admits. “Short and powerful. Just like you.”

Very slowly, a smile climbs onto John’s lips.

Sherlock seems briefly nonplussed. He narrows his eyes and examines John for a few seconds before looking away slowly, his gaze lingering on his letters.

Sherlock plays his next word with bold, sure movements: WRITHE. 39 points.

Impressive, but nothing John hasn’t seen before. John plays his next word: TOP. 18 points.

Sherlock frowns, looking from the board to John and back again with something like disappointment. “John, I thought you said you were _good_ at this,” he complains. “Perhaps you should be trying harder.”

John’s smile doesn’t go away; in fact it grows bigger. “Alright,” he says simply, his tone level and reasonable. Sherlock practically squirms on the floor, his chin coming up to rest on his knees as though he’s five years old.  

Sherlock plays another word: LEMMING. 38 points.

John plays another word: XI. 31 points.

They continue playing in silence now, no sound in the flat, save for the too-loud ticking of the tiles on the board and the clock on their mantelpiece. Sherlock is always a hair’s breadth ahead of John, but John is close enough behind him in score that he knows Sherlock has got to be the tiniest bit concerned.

As the game continues on, the floor of the flat becomes colder. Sherlock moves closer to John, scooting around the edge of the board on his pyjama-clad bottom until they are pressed together thigh-to-thigh. John doesn’t really mind. He never really minds Sherlock touching him (unless it’s for some asinine experiment, of course) and besides, it’s the middle of November, and they’re both shivering, and Sherlock really is so deliciously warm.

John finds himself leaning into Sherlock’s side as they play their words in silence. Not enough for Sherlock to notice, surely; but enough that John _definitely_ notices when Sherlock reciprocates by tipping his head to the side until it rests on John’s shoulder, sliding one long, thin arm around John’s waist.

He’s close enough to see all of John’s letter tiles.

“Hey, you,” John says in surprise, although not displeasure. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, you cheater.”

Sherlock makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat and pulls John closer. He turns so that his face is buried against John’s shoulder and mutters, “Happy?” into his t-shirt. “Can’t see _anything_ now.”

“Well, I—“ John doesn’t finish his sentence, because Sherlock’s soft curls are tickling the side of his face, and it’s way more pleasant than it has any right to be. And this causes John to feel much more confused than he’d ever anticipated to be while playing Scrabble, ever.

But John Watson doesn’t give in—with a triumphant grin on his face, John plays his final word, with Sherlock Holmes draped across him: QUIZZIFY. 159 points.

John makes a satisfied noise, and Sherlock turns his head a bit until he has one eye free. He observes the board critically, and John can practically _hear_ the thoughts whirring around in his head. 

“John, you… _won.”_ Sherlock sounds bewildered, which John finds equal parts mystifying and hilarious. “How can that be?”

John shrugs with the shoulder that Sherlock isn’t clinging to, careful not to dislodge him. He feels too good to let go of just yet. “Patience. I’ve been saving up my tiles. Guess _you’ll_ just have to try harder next time.”

Sherlock hums in disbelief, but doesn’t sit up or pull away. He seems just as content to stay in the position he’s in as John is to keep him there. “Alright,” Sherlock says after a moment of silence. His voice is lower than usual, softer. “Round two, John. Now.”

The fireplace still has wood to burn, and the candles still have life left in them. And it is apparently ridiculously difficult to say no to Sherlock Holmes when one is being cuddled by him—so John agrees.

“Alright. Sherlock, you go first.”

Lifting his head (but not taking his arm away) Sherlock chooses his tiles carefully.

“Sherlock,” John says after a moment as he stares at the other man. “You’d better not be trying to cheat again.”

“Hush, John. You’re ruining it,” Sherlock snaps, but there’s no vitriol in his tone. Slowly, he rearranges the tiles with his one free hand before beginning to set them out, one row at a time.

First row: “Kiss.” The tiles make soft clicking noises as the shiny wood meets the worn cardboard. Second row: “Me.”

John reads those two words, and then he laughs. “You can’t play two words together like that, Sherlock,” he teases, but his voice shakes, and something in his stomach is doing flips, and at some point he’s not only wrapped his own arm around Sherlock, but he’s turned to look at him, too, bringing their lips to rest mere centimetres apart.

“I suppose it’s always been difficult for me to play by the rules,” Sherlock whispers. His eyes are huge, and dark, and deep, and that is what John focusses on as Sherlock breaks the distance between the two of them with a tender, quick kiss against John’s lips.

“See, normally—“ John muses with what little breath he has left in him, “That irritates me about you. But right now?” He smiles slowly. “Right now, I’ll allow it.” They’re so close that their lips touch as he speaks, and Sherlock is in his arms breathing like he’s just run a half-marathon.

Sherlock smiles as John tips forward to meet his lips with a kiss, swiping the tiles off the board and into a heap on the cold, cold floor.


	14. Some People Call This Wisdom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> The man smiles at him, slow and sultry, his face framed by a shock of dark curls. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he repeats._
> 
> _He is lovely in the same way that the moon is lovely. He glows before John’s eyes, bright and beautiful and incomprehensible. So real, and yet seemingly untouchable—so completely other-wordly—that John almost gasps at the absolute improbability of it all._
> 
> _John steps closer immediately. “You’re the fortune teller,” he says, gesturing to the sign. “Isn’t it you who ought to be telling me?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 Prompt: “Some People Call Thus Wisdom.”
> 
> This chapter was co-written by both unicornpoe and FinAmour ❤️❤️
> 
> Warning: copious amounts of snogging ahead. Enjoy!

John Watson has been in Mumbai for fewer than thirty-six hours, but the sights and sounds and smells have already wrapped him up in a tapestry of colour that he’ll never be able to unwind from.

It’s exactly the sort of place that John could get used to being lost in—wherever he looks, another bend in the street, another nook that he hasn’t explored. It’s a city that appeals to all senses; where the air smells of spices and humans and animals and mystery.

There’s something so freeing about touring a place where nobody knows you, and where you know nobody else. Where every person you meet is a stranger, until suddenly they aren’t—and every possibility seems to tingle along one’s skin.

In the morning, John had found himself up early and exploring the area surrounding his hotel, but by the time the hours had stretched into early evening, he’d wandered far.

Currently, he is happily perusing an enormous bazaar. Booth after booth of energetic people sell spices, silk, and knockoff designer bags, waving their items in the air and begging to be seen. They are haggling prices with one another, asking John to pay twenty times what every item is worth, but John doesn’t mind. He’s already collected a large array of items he doesn’t remotely need, but knows he won’t regret buying at all.

John purchases a bottle of warm beer from one particularly enthusiastic vendor and continues strolling down a crowded aisle of the seemingly endless market. And suddenly, in a sea of voices calling for his patronage, one particular voice floats above the rest.

The voice stands out—not only because it’s in a British accent—but because the odd familiarity of the words sends a shiver down John’s spine.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John turns on his heel to follow the voice as the crowd surges around him, and though he’s being pushed and buffered from all sides, he stands completely still.

“What did you say?” John asks, his voice slightly breathless as he scratches absently at the two-day old stubble on his chin and cheeks. 

Unexpectedly, John finds his gaze trained fixedly on the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. 

Two eyes, precisely the depth and colour of the Milky Way, meet John’s across a tiny wooden table. They are framed by thick, dark lashes, heavy and slow-blinking and enthralling as they shutter his irises. A crystal ball sits innocuously before the man; his pale skin shining silver with the light that radiates off of it.

A sign hangs on the table beneath the crystal ball, which reads, in dark block letters: SHERLOCK HOLMES, CLAIRVOYANT.

The man smiles at him, slow and sultry, his face framed by a shock of dark curls. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he repeats.

He is lovely in the same way that the moon is lovely. He glows before John’s eyes, bright and beautiful and incomprehensible. So real, and yet seemingly untouchable—so completely other-wordly—that John almost gasps at the absolute improbability of it all.

John steps closer immediately. “You’re the fortune teller,” he says, gesturing to the sign. “Isn’t it _you_ who ought to be telling _me?”_

The man tilts his head as his gaze drops, his heavy-lidded eyes raking over John’s body like hot coals. Starting at his feet, he works his way up inch by inch, so maddeningly slowly that by the time his eyes finally meet John’s again, he is sure his knees have turned to liquid.

“Afghanistan,” says the man, his voice rumbling like thunder in an open sky. “British Army Captain. You’re on your second day of a two-week military leave.”

John doesn’t know when he’d begun staring, or when he’d stopped breathing, but he doesn’t really care. 

There is definitely something different, something untold, something _mystical_ about this man. It’s something John cannot explain, but god, his otherworldly beauty is a sight John has never beheld. John already feels as though this man knows his entire life story; and there is an intense magnetism drawing John in, as if John somehow knows his story as well.

“So, then, Captain,” the man says with a tiny quirk of his pale lips. “Are you going to allow me to continue reading you, or not?”

John’s stomach executes a nimble little flip, and he nods without even thinking about it, because saying no is definitely not an option. 

The man gestures to the small chair on the opposite side of the table with one long, pale hand, and John pulls it out and sits.

“So,” John says, leaning his elbows on the rickety wooden tabletop. “You’re going to tell me about my fortune, then?”

“Actually, no.” The man is perched in his chair like a cat, all long lines and dark angles, and John finds himself smiling at the look of excitement that crosses his elegant features.

“Then what exactly do you call—whatever it is you’re doing?” John asks.

The man’s eyes narrow, his gaze on John unblinking and almost scalding in its intensity. “Some people call this fortune-telling. Some people call this wisdom. I simply refer to it as reading.”

His voice is almost nothing, only sooty smoke in the air between them. “I have the ability to _read_ people,” he says, “like one would read the pages of a book—a person can tell me their story without ever saying a word.”

As the man’s lips move around his consonants and vowels like a dance, John feels caught up in a heady wind. He makes it sound like poetry.

“So.” John’s veins are buzzing with something warm and courageous that makes him lean forward, closer. “What else do you see on my pages?”

The man blinks, his lips parted around a breath. His gaze doesn’t change; it continues to shift and flicker across John’s skin like dappled sunlight on a lake, taking John in until suddenly—

Oh. Oh, god.

Something in his eyes just… _shifts._ He snaps into focus; his pupils wide and dark, his irises as deep and blue as the Dahisar River. And he is staring _straight at John._

“You’re training to become a surgeon, and it’s something that you’re good at, but the novelty will wear off sooner than you’d like. That is…” he trails off and seems to hesitate for a second. “That is, unless you meet a person who can give you the excitement and adventure you crave,” he adds in a low voice.

“ _Oh,_ you’re _very_ good,” John murmurs as he leans in even closer. His entire body feels warm, and there’s no _way_ that he isn’t blushing, and yet he can’t stop himself from hanging on to every word that comes from the man’s mouth.

The man blinks at John, long and slow, and proceeds to take him apart with his gaze. “You’ve dated quite a bit in your life,” he continues. “Both men and women. But you’d never had a serious relationship until you joined the army. And…” his eyes widen. John almost blushes. “Oh. With a commanding officer. A General.”

“Amazing.” John swallows. His ears are burning, and his stomach is in knots. “You’re  _brilliant.”_ Because when this beautiful, seemingly all-knowing man talks about John, he is lit from the inside-out with some kind of light that John cannot explain.

The man’s cheeks immediately turn a dark, dusky pink, and he looks up at John through his eyelashes. “And I also predict,” he utters, clearing his throat very softly. “...That based on the way you’ve been looking at me, you’re going to ask me to meet you somewhere tonight.”

John smiles, slow and suggestive, and with a sudden boldness, he takes the man’s hand in his, his calloused fingers brushing gently at his almost silken skin. “I’d like to take you to this little shisha cafe I passed on the way here,” he says plainly. “They’ve got these giant cushions and beautiful lights strung on the ceiling. We could sprawl out, and smoke some, and I could buy you a drink, and you could tell me more. Only this time, I’d like to hear about _you,_ Sherlock Holmes _.”_

The man pulls John in a tiny bit closer, squeezing his hand. “I know the cafe to which you are referring. I’ll meet you at the West Entrance of the bazaar in forty-five minutes.”

***

When Sherlock arrives to meet John at the West Entrance of the bazaar, John can feel himself grinning widely, but he doesn’t try to hide it. He knows Sherlock will just read it all over him, anyway.

He almost _hopes_ he does.

They watch each other silently for a moment. Scanning, assessing, admiring. Sherlock is wearing a neatly-pressed purple button-down shirt and black slacks, and he is absolutely stunning. 

“Sherlock,” John says finally, and he’s surprised at how absolutely smitten his tone is. “Sherlock, you look—”

Well. Maybe not _that_ surprised.

And then, John is suddenly very aware of his _own_ appearance; he hasn’t shaved in three days, his hair is mussed, and his clothing is probably stained from the sweat he’s built up from walking around in the blistering heat all day.

And here is Sherlock, looking like a bloody supermodel, and—

“So do you,” Sherlock says insistently. He is suddenly very, very close. So close that it wouldn’t take much at all for John to simply lean in, to fit his hands in the dip of Sherlock’s waist and brush his lips against the pulse beating at the base of Sherlock’s throat.

But that would be mad, now. Wouldn’t it?

Sherlock doesn’t move from where he is standing, though—he simply gazes at John expectantly, his eyes pulling John in, and _god,_ John feels warm.

“So, erm—” John clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, just so that he doesn’t simply reach out and _touch_. “Shall we, then?”

Sherlock smiles at him and nods. “Yes.”

With a final lingering glance, John manages to tear his gaze away from Sherlock’s crystalline eyes before setting off into the direction of the cafe.

Sherlock walks beside John, so close that their arms brush with almost every step. It’s fine—it’s very good, in fact. Because Sherlock smells like rain and honey and sandalwood, and John just wants to be close to him. Closer. As close as he can get.

The alleyway is lit sporadically with a series of yellow-toned lamps—Sherlock looks like he’s made out of gold in this light. Their footfalls echo in rhythm. John’s heart is lodged in his throat.

And as they walk, John finds his confidence soaring; especially since it’s obvious that Sherlock is sneaking glances at him with increasing frequency, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he does. So John takes a deep, shuddering breath of air before he brushes his fingers lightly against Sherlock’s once... and then again... and then again.

Sherlock doesn’t flinch—and John weaves his fingers through Sherlock’s firmly. Sherlock squeezes back as they make their way down the dark alley side by side.

When they arrive at the cafe, John holds the door open for Sherlock; and Sherlock smiles at him as he brushes by, letting his hand drift lingeringly across John’s knuckles.

It’s dim and crowded in there, a faint lull of voices providing a background noise that is just loud enough without seeming overpowering. Everything is ornate, intimate, romantic. It’s dark, save for the strings of yellow lights hanging on the walls—just dark enough that John could pull Sherlock a tiny bit closer if he wanted to.

He wants to. So he gives in to the atmosphere, gives in to his urges, sliding an arm cautiously around Sherlock’s waist; and immediately, Sherlock leans back into John’s hold. 

John hands the man at the door 1000 rupees to give them a private room. He then thanks him and orders their drinks and a honey-flavoured hookah for them to share, as they settle down upon the plush cushions scattered on the floor.

The two of them hadn’t spoken since leaving the bazaar. But John can read Sherlock’s every meaning in the way he drags his gaze across John’s skin, in the flash of his ebullient eyes when they catch one another’s glances. There’s a kind of music in the way they look at each other that’s frightening and lovely and louder than anything John’s heard before.

“So,” John begins after a moment. “Where are you from, then?”

“London,” Sherlock responds slowly, sipping his drink without taking his eyes off of John, his pale lips pursed over his straw. “Just like you.”

John nods. Right, of course he’d know that, somehow.

“There is no need for this, you know,” Sherlock whispers, leaning forward.

John’s leaning forward too, pulled by the magnetic force of the man in front of him. “No need for what?” he asks.

“For small talk,” Sherlock murmurs, placing a hand on John’s arm. “I’ve known since you first laid eyes on me that you want to kiss me, and I’ve followed you here, so—“

John sets his drink aside, and it feels as though his heart stops. “So...what?”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep across John like floodlights, bright and all-seeing; a muscle bobbing in the pale column of his throat as he swallows. 

“Kiss me,” he says breathlessly, a rosy colour high on his cheeks.

John plucks the glass out of Sherlock’s loose grip, and he sets it next to his own on the low table. He kneels before Sherlock, raising himself up on his knees, winding his fingers through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls, and he kisses him. 

Sherlock makes a short, low, pleased noise as he wraps his own arms tightly around John’s waist, his head tipping back as John licks the seam of his velvet lips. They fall open immediately upon the slightest pressure from John, instantly eager and hot and willing. They taste like Long Island Iced Tea, like clean air and spices and jasmine.

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock murmurs as John comes up for air, but John doesn’t give him any time to say anything further—instead, he teases the inside of Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue. Sherlock is making loud and breathless noises into his mouth, and twisting fistfulls of John’s ragged t-shirt between his long fingers.

“Sherlock,” John says, hardly more than a whisper. He sinks down, gathering Sherlock’s body into his. He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat—warm and so vibrantly alive against the sensitive skin of John’s lips—as Sherlock shudders against him with a long, low groan. 

Sherlock kneads John’s waist with his restless fingers as John pulls away, kissing him all over; his neck, his clavicle, that small, warm, sweet-smelling space just under his right ear. From his mouth to his cheek, from his cheek to his jaw, from his jaw to the pounding pulse point at the base of his neck.

Sherlock’s chest is heaving against John’s as John dips his head; their mouths barely skimming, brushing with the perfect amount of slick, scalding contact. Sherlock exhales—hot and open-mouthed breaths against John’s lips, and the feeling of it is so perfect that John actually gets goosebumps.

Cupping the back of Sherlock’s skull with one hand, John pulls him forward once more, just hard enough that their mouths crash together again. There’s a bright spot of pain; but then it’s over, Sherlock is _actually whimpering_ as John tugs at his curls with gentle fingers. 

Sherlock pulls John’s bottom lip between his own, bringing John’s body as close to his as he can possibly get. He runs his tongue along the edge of John’s, and a shiver scurries down the length of John’s spine, and John feels it, bone-deep and real.

Sherlock’s kisses are pushy and insistent, demanding and needy and borderline obsessive—and yet, there’s something so gentle about the way he touches John; it’s in the way he strokes his spine, in the way be lingers as he pulls away from this kiss, warm and golden-delicious.

God. Coming to India was the best decision that John has ever made in his _life._

“You.” Sherlock brushes a palm against John’s stubbled cheek and pulls his face up so that he can look him in the eyes. “I already know so much about you, but I’ve yet to learn your name.”

“John,” John says instantly. “John Watson.” He smiles and kisses him again, but slows their kisses to small, quiet brushes of lips and warm, meandering presses of hands. 

Sherlock smiles at John with kiss-swollen lips; his hair standing on end from where John had run his fingers over and over and over again.

“John, stay with me tonight,” he says. “Please.”

“Of course,” John murmurs. He kisses Sherlock on the temple, smoothing back errant strands of hair from his damp forehead. “Yes. And every night after, while I’m here in Mumbai, if you’d like.”

Sherlock stares at him. Galaxy eyes. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Good.” John kisses Sherlock on the forehead. “I’ve got no fancy crystal ball, but I can predict that you and I are going to have quite a bit of fun together, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock beams at him, bringing their noses and mouths into alignment, and whispers softly against John’s lips. “Yes,” he says. “I predict we will as well.”


	15. I Thought You Had Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes away for a medical conference; three weeks later, he is on his way back to London, but he doesn’t hear from Sherlock. Has Sherlock forgotten all about him?
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> They haven’t said it out loud yet, not in so many words. They haven’t said “I love you” and heard the other say it back. Instead they say, “you’re an idiot,” and “I bought the milk,” and “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,” and put their lives on the line for each other every damn day. And it’s enough—or it always has been. They know._
> 
> _But sometimes, John realizes, hearing it spoken in no uncertain terms is exactly what’s needed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 prompt: "I Thought You Had Forgotten."
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<333333

**_one hour, forty-five minutes_ **

John presses the button on his phone, screen going dark. He tips his head back against the wall of the train, closing his eyes, and tries his very best not to fidget. It won’t do him any good, worrying. There’s nothing he can do from here, in a train car, one hours and forty-five minutes away from London, from home, from Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John smiles at the thought of him, his heart clenching painfully. It’s been three weeks since the last time he’s seen Sherlock Holmes—three long, empty weeks. John’s been at a conference in Aberdeen for the better part of a month, and he and his (boyfriend? Lover? Friend?) his  _ Sherlock _ have been communicating soley over text and phone calls.

It’s the first time that they’ve been apart since John showed up at Baker Street six months ago in the rain, free from any echos of their past save the ones they wanted to remember, and begged to come home. It’s the first time that they’ve been apart since Sherlock stepped out onto the rain-darkened pavement in bare feet, and pulled John into his arms, and kissed him.

Every cell in John’s body aches for the man he hasn’t stopped touching since that moment. He is tired, he is heartsick, he wants to go home, he wants  _ Sherlock. _

Only… Sherlock isn’t texting him back.

**_one hour, seventeen minutes_ **

John tells himself that everything’s fine. He tells himself that Sherlock forgot to charge his phone, that Sherlock is on a case, that Sherlock dropped his mobile into the Thames again and even now is waiting back at Baker Street, safe and happy and in one piece… but he can’t help but feel a sliver of fear trickling in. He can’t help but envision the worst: Sherlock, chained to a pipe in a dirty basement somewhere, or held at gunpoint, or locked in a skip, or drugged and bound and threatened and—

But no. Someone would have called John if Sherlock was missing or hurt or in danger. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan even. Sherlock is absolutely fine.

Which simply means that he’s forgotten all about John.

**_one hour, three minutes_ **

John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

This is a fact, and nobody ever attempts to dispute it. It’s as clear as glass, shining and obvious and irrefutable. John would go to the ends of the earth for this man—has done, and probably will again—and never, ever complain. John would take bullets for him. John has killed for him. Sherlock Holmes is the sun, and John Watson is a planet, endlessly orbiting him with no desire to break the cycle.

He loves him because of his faults, not despite them; he loves every last gorgeous, brilliant centimeter of Sherlock, top to bottom, good and bad, and nothing will ever change his mind. And this is all part of the reason the realization that Sherlock has forgotten about John hurts so deeply.

John is ashamed that it bothers him. Sherlock’s a busy man, and the things that he’s busy with are  _ important;  _ he saves lives every single day, and never tires of it. John shouldn’t begrudge him. John shouldn’t  _ care. _

_ But it took so long to get him, _ John thinks, keeping his eyes tightly shut, keeping the rest of his body still.  _ I’d like to keep him, at least for a little bit. _

**_fifty-two minutes_ **

Unbidden, the memory of the last time John spoke to Sherlock face-to-face rises up in his mind, and he swallows hard against the onslaught of emotion that accompanies it.

_ “I’ll only be gone three weeks.” _

_ John murmurs the words into the crown of Sherlock’s head, cupping the nape of Sherlock’s neck with gentle, careful fingers. He inhales deeply, gets a lungful of the heady scent of Sherlock Holmes; smoke, and sugar, and tea. Sherlock is kneeling on the floor in front of their door, his arms wrapped around John’s waist as he buries his face in John’s jumper and holds on tight. _

_ “Don’t go.” _

_ Something in John’s heart throbs. Heat prickles the backs of his eyes, and he hides it in Sherlock’s curls. “Love,” he says. “You know I have to.” _

_ He does. He has to. It’s the cost of his job, this conference. If he wants to stay employed, he needs to go on this trip. _

_ Sherlock pulls back enough that he can look up at John, and his lips are parted, pale and pink and wet, and his eyes are wide, dark and vivid blue and shining with moisture. “John,” he whispers. “Please. Don’t go. Stay home, with me.” _

_ John kneels before Sherlock and Sherlock keeps his arms around John. John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands. _

_ “Sherlock,” he murmurs. Sherlock looks vastly unhappy; he seems almost on the brink of tears, and John can’t stand to see him upset, god, it physically  _ hurts _ to see him anything less than happy.  _ “ _ Sherlock,” John says again, and presses their foreheads together. They breathe. “I’ll come back. I promise. I will  _ always  _ come back.” _

And John is. John does. John  _ will. _

Even if there is no one there to receive him. He’ll never stop hoping.

**_forty minutes_ **

John pulls a paperback thriller that he bought in the station in Aberdeen out of his briefcase and opens it, staring blankly down at the pages just for something to do. He checks his phone twelve times.

They texted yesterday morning, but still. A whole day has gone by.

Each time, the screen is empty.

**_twenty-five minutes_ **

It doesn’t matter that Sherlock doesn’t remember. John’s still going to grab Sherlock by the shoulders and kiss him insensate as soon as he gets home. And then he’s never, ever,  _ ever _ going to let him go again.

**_fifteen minutes_ **

John’s arms ache for the weight of him.

**_five minutes_ **

John stands as the train jerks to a halt, gathering up his bags and shouldering his way to the front of the car. He glances out the windows; people clog the station even though it’s three in the morning, bustling to and fro, saying hello and saying goodbye. John feels a wistful pang as he steps out onto the platform, dragging his suitcase behind him.  _ At least you have someone to come home to, _ he thinks, remembering a time when Sherlock was gone, when John’s flat rang with empty silence.  _ At least you have someone— _

“John!”

John freezes. Peculiarly, his knees go week, and he sways a little bit in the middle of the surging crowd. He’s hot and cold all over at the sound of that voice.

“John Watson!”

John turns, craning his neck and scanning above heads and shoulders for a glimpse of him, just a glance, just something more than the old screenshots saved in his camera roll that he’s been looking at for so long, or the photo tucked in his wallet—

Sherlock crashes into him with all the force of a speeding train. John drops his bags to the ground as his arms come up to cradle him; Sherlock folds bonelessly into John, and John takes his full weight, automatically supporting him.

_ “Sherlock _ ,” John breathes against his neck. Sherlock makes a short, small noise, pulling John closer, and John lets him. He feels something lodged in his throat, something that beats like his heart. A million emotions flood through him at once, leaving him dizzy: shame that he’d thought for even one second Sherlock might not miss him, relief that he does, and a feeling like treacle dripping in his chest, a feeling of all-consuming love. “I thought you had forgotten,” John murmurs.

Sherlock shakes his head hard, his cheek brushing John’s temple, and doesn’t respond. He’s breathing fast and hard, little gaspy noises that break John’s heart, as his long fingers tug and stroke at every inch of John that’s available.

“Silly of me, I know,” John says softly. And it  _ was _ . Extremely silly of him. Sherlock loves more deeply than any other human John knows; of  _ course _ Sherlock missed him. Of  _ course _ Sherlock remembered him.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Sherlock says at last. He pulls away a tiny bit to look John in the eye, and there’s a tremulous smile on his lips. He’s breathtakingly beautiful. “I wanted to make you happy when you got off of the train and saw me there.” He pauses, eyes scanning John in that lightening-quick way of his, and the smile falls from his face. “I didn’t want… I didn’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he finishes on a whisper, moving to pull out of John’s hold.

John panics. They’ve gotten so much better at this. At emotions, at talking, at  _ loving.  _ He isn’t going to let one tiny thing make Sherlock disappear back into himself, especially not after they’ve been apart for so long. Lifting his hands to frame Sherlock’s face, John pulls him back in, pressing a frantic kiss to the seam of Sherlock’s lips and lingering there. 

“No, love,” he whispers. “Don’t do that. Don’t go.”

Only after some of the tension eases from Sherlock does John pull away, and even then it’s just to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist. To hold him close.

“You didn’t make me sad, Sherlock,” John says. He kisses him again, light, feathery things, over and over again until at last Sherlock smiles and ducks his head with a soft laugh. “You make me happier than anyone has ever made me. You…”

Sherlock meets John’s gaze again. His eyes are oceans.

They haven’t said it out loud yet, not in so many words. They haven’t said “I love you” and heard the other say it back. Instead they say, “you’re an idiot,” and “I bought the milk,” and “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,” and put their lives on the line for each other every damn day. And it’s enough—or it always has been. They  _ know _ .

But sometimes, John realizes, hearing it spoken in no uncertain terms is exactly what’s needed.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John says, and raises himself up on his tip-toes so that they’re eye-to-eye. He smiles. “I love you.”

A thousand thoughts flicker across Sherlock’s face, too fast to catch, and John watches patiently until at last an answering smile breaks out over his Sherlock’s lips. It’s as dazzling as if he were staring straight at the sun. “John Watson,” answers Sherlock, his voice a low rumble. “I love you, too.”

They stand there smiling like idiots in the middle of the station until Sherlock bends and kisses John, enthusiastic and sloppy and wonderfully, achingly sweet.

And then, hand in hand, they go home.


	16. This is Gonna be So Much Fun!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock loves everything about John, even when John is short-tempered or demanding. And John loves everything about Sherlock, even when he’s stubborn or ill-mannered._
> 
> _John loves Sherlock when he examines dead things, and he loves Sherlock when he plays the violin. John loves Sherlock when the two of them go to museum exhibitions about serial killers, and he loves Sherlock while they kiss beneath the Perseid meteor shower._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 Prompt: This is Gonna be So Much Fun!
> 
> This chapter was written by FinAmour ❤️

Sherlock Holmes is only six years old when he begins to study dead things. He does it because he wants to help save the lives of blackbirds.

One day while playing outside in the garden, he finds one—its wings are crossed over its completely still body, and it has stopped singing. Sherlock wants to know _why_ it has stopped singing, and he decides to figure it out, so no other blackbirds will lose their own song as well.

He scoops it up with his tiny hands and carefully folds it into his shirt, and he brings it into his house to get a closer look.

He bounds inside with a huge smile on his face—this is going to be _so much fun._ He takes a seat at his father’s desk, because he knows, based on what his father has always said, that this is the place work gets done.

He sets the bird on his father’s desk, carefully taking out a pair of scissors, and he begins to thoroughly dissect it.

Mummy calls from the corridor that lunch is ready, and Sherlock calls back that he’s going to have to skip lunch today, because he’s performing an autopsy. Mummy comes upstairs to see what Sherlock has gotten into, and upon entering, she lets out a blood-curdling scream.

She makes Sherlock throw the bird back outside immediately, shower for an extensive amount of time, and makes a colourful joke about finding him a therapist.

After that, whenever Sherlock performs an autopsy, he simply steals his father’s scissors and goes outside where he won’t be interrupted.

***

When Sherlock is in his sixth year of primary, he discovers his fascination with astronomy. He memorises every constellation in the Milky Way galaxy (Canis Major is his favourite); he devours book after book about black holes and supernovas; and he yearns to explore each planet within the solar system.

He begs his parents to buy him a telescope so that he can study the night sky, and when they do, there is little else he wants to talk about.

“Normally,” he says to a classmate over lunch. “We consider ourselves to be in the orbit of the sun. However, the sun’s outer atmosphere technically expands past our planet, so one could say that we actually live _inside_ the sun.”

His classmate rolls her eyes and moves herself to another table.

A few days later, Sherlock is put into time out for making four of his classmates cry. But he had thought it incredibly important to announce to his entire class that there is a supermassive black hole headed towards Earth at 110 kilometres per second, and that if they were to come too close, the gravitational pull would stretch each of their bodies out, long and thin, like spaghetti. If they weren’t first incinerated by a wall of fire. Obviously.

When the Perseid meteor shower peaks that year, Sherlock begs Mycroft to watch it with him. Mycroft tells Sherlock that he’s too busy and has more important things to do than look up at a bunch of ridiculous falling stars.

The night is covered in thick clouds, and even with his telescope, Sherlock isn’t able to see a single meteor.

The following morning, he throws his telescope into the pond behind their house, and he deletes everything about the solar system from his memory.

***

When Sherlock is fifteen, he fancies a boy named Victor.

Victor plays cricket, and has light, wavy hair and blue eyes, and fair skin and a voice like honey—and when he smiles, Sherlock can’t look away for anything.

Sherlock stares at Victor each day from the back of the classroom as the boy laughs and talks lightheartedly with other students. He writes love letters to Victor that he never gives him, and he composes songs for him on the violin—songs that he has never played outside the walls of his bedroom.

The day Victor asks Sherlock if he can come over to his house to study, he thinks he may be living in a dream. Sherlock rushes home from school, does his hair and puts on his most expensive shirt. He makes tea and snacks and practices his violin until the doorbell rings.

The two study for an hour and a half, and Victor smiles that gorgeous smile at Sherlock and tells him they ought to study together more often. Sherlock thinks that Victor’s version of studying is rather odd, because he seems to simply be copying the answers Sherlock has written down, but when Victor smiles at him like that, he doesn’t dare question it.

It’s then that Victor seems to notice Sherlock’s violin sitting innocuously in the corner of his room. He frowns and asks Sherlock if he plays, and Sherlock proudly tells him yes, and he asks Victor  if he would like to hear him.

Victor sneers and tells him that if he’d wanted to hear someone play the violin, he’d stand on a corner near Trafalgar Square and wave a five-pound note in the air. He then asks Sherlock what his answer is for problem twenty-four.

Sherlock wilts, his chest burning, and he asks Victor to leave. That evening, he sets his love letters aflame, and he composes a new melody on his violin—this one much more melancholy than the rest.

***

During Sherlock’s first year of university, his father buys him two tickets to see an exhibition on Jack the Ripper at the Museum of London. He tells him he thought it seemed like something he’d enjoy, and that he can bring a friend with him if he likes.

Sherlock doesn’t have friends.

When Sherlock asks his father to join him, he simply chuckles and tells him that serial killers aren’t particularly his idea of fun.

***

When Sherlock is twenty-three and in his final year of graduate school, he begins solving murders with New Scotland Yard as a hobby.

It’s much more fun than partying or video games or photography or all of the things his peers seem to be interested in. And the Yard can’t seem to figure anything out on their own, anyway.

But Sherlock needs a partner—someone to take notes when he goes deep into his Mind Palace; someone to communicate with humans in a way that Sherlock can’t seem to do. Someone to help keep Sherlock grounded when he’s on a six-hour stakeout, or when he’s ruminating over the death of a very young person he hasn’t solved, and he hasn’t slept for three days straight.

So Sherlock creates an ad, and posts it on a local website. _Wanted: Partner in crime-solving._

He gets seven email replies. Three of them invite Sherlock to partake in the exchange of explicit photographs. One offers to sell him life insurance. The other three ask him how much the job pays. Sherlock lets them know that it’s only for fun, but nobody takes him up on the offer.

So he continues to do it alone, because alone is what he has.

***

When he is thirty-two years old, Sherlock has built a career out of solving crimes, and he’s very, very good at it.

When Sherlock meets John Watson, he becomes even better.

John agrees to move in with Sherlock first, and he agrees to solve a crime with him second, and those are two things that nobody has ever agreed to do.

Furthermore, John does both things with an unprecedented enthusiasm, and they laugh and they laugh as they chase a serial killer through London. And John doesn’t tell Sherlock that he is strange at all—John calls him extraordinary, in fact.

And then John saves him, and Sherlock knows without a doubt that he has met someone very, very important.

They stay up far too late talking and drinking and eating Chinese food and exchanging lingering glances, and it’s absolutely the best night of Sherlock’s life.

***

John is at Sherlock’s side unfailingly and unquestioningly for many cases after that. Sherlock never even has to ask. Because John Watson apparently thinks solving crimes is just as fun as Sherlock does—he even decides to write about it.

“John,” Sherlock asks one evening after solving the Maloney triple homicide. “You’re a doctor.”

John frowns at him. “Had you forgotten?”

“What I mean is—you’ve got a career, and a _good_ one—why do you choose to involve yourself in what I do? It’s dangerous, and time-consuming, and it doesn’t even pay well.”

John purses his lips together in thought. “I suppose I do it because it makes me happy. And I do it because it makes you happy, as well.”

Sherlock can’t hold back the smile forming on his lips. “Because it makes _me_ happy?” Nobody had ever cared much about _that._

“Absolutely,” John says with a grin. “Seeing you in action is thrilling, and now that I’ve had a taste of it, I can’t imagine my life any other way.”

***

When Sherlock is thirty-nine years old, John buys him a telescope for his birthday.

“I know I tease you constantly for knowing nothing about the solar system,” John says, his blue eyes sparkling. “So I figured—maybe you could spend some time staring at the night sky, and the beautiful stars, and learn a thing or two.”

Sherlock doesn’t even notice the tears springing up in his eyes until a look of panic appears on John’s face.

“If you don’t like it, I can take it back,” John says immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s not—“ Sherlock swallows. “It’s lovely, John. It reminds me of one I had as a young boy, one I’d forgotten all about until now.”

John steps forward, closing the space between the two of them, and he tilts his head upwards to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “So you like it, then?” he asks, his expression so full of concern it makes Sherlock’s stomach flip.

Sherlock likes it very much. He loves it, in fact.

He loves John. He tells him.

And then John takes Sherlock’s head into his hands and he kisses him, and that’s how Sherlock learns that John loves him, as well.

***

Sherlock and John grow old together.

Sherlock loves everything about John, even when John is short-tempered or demanding. And John loves everything about Sherlock, even when he’s stubborn or ill-mannered.

John loves Sherlock when he examines dead things, and he loves Sherlock when he plays the violin. John loves Sherlock when the two of them go to museum exhibitions about serial killers, and he loves Sherlock while they kiss beneath the Perseid meteor shower.

***

When Sherlock is sixty years old, he retires—and John retires, too—and they make plans to relocate to a small cottage in Sussex.

There are beehives there. Sherlock is enamoured with the thought of  bees, and studying them and cataloguing them and closely following their lives.

And when he asks John how he feels about it, John says it sounds like fun, but he’d be alright with anything that makes Sherlock happy.

 _“You_ make me happy, you know,” Sherlock murmurs into the soft grey hair on John’s head. “I love you more than I love bees, or murderers, or supernovas, or violins, or dead bodies, and I love all of those things quite a lot.” He dusts a kiss onto John’s temple and pulls him closer. “John Watson, you are my absolute favourite thing.”

John laughs into the warm skin of Sherlock’s clavicle. “Yes, I know. Sherlock, you’re my favourite thing, as well. You’re the cleverest and kindest and most beautiful human being I’ve ever met in my entire life.” John tilts his head back to kiss Sherlock on his mouth, and Sherlock wonders to himself how he’d ever gotten quite so lucky.


	17. I'll Tell You But You're Not Gonna Like It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock,” he says, very evenly and calmly and not at all like he might be having an aneurysm. “Why the fuck. Did you. Jump in the Thames. In November.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 17 Prompt: “I’ll Tell You But You’re Not Gonna Like It.”
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3

“I’ll tell you, but you aren’t gonna like it.”

John presses a palm to his forehead. John thinks that perhaps he might be having an aneurysm.

“Sherlock,” he says, very evenly and calmly and not at all like he might be having an aneurysm. “Why the fuck. Did you. Jump in the Thames. In November.”

John realizes that he’s speaking in short, choppy sentences, the words erupting in tiny, potent bursts, and decides that he approves of this method, because at least it gives his vocal cords a chance to rest between shouts.

Sherlock lifts his chin and watches John out of eyes narrowed into slits. He looks entirely haughtier than anyone who is soaking wet in dirty water from the  _ fucking Thames  _ has any right to look. His hair hangs in bedraggled clumps across his forehead, he shivers violently, his lips are faintly blue, and yet  _ he _ is the one who seems in the right, here. John’s aneurysm is worse.

“The su-suspect threw chick-ch-chicken in—“

“Oh my god,” John says. He grabs Sherlock by his moist arm and hauls him inside, slamming the door loudly. Sherlock drips in an annoyed fashion. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Sherlock sniffs, but whether that’s an act of further stroppiness or because he’s likely coming down with pneumonia in front of John’s very eyes is unknown.

As John continues to haul him, however—this time up the stairs and into the flat—Sherlock stumbles along almost meekly, and this is John’s downfall.

He sighs as they reach the sitting room, turning Sherlock around to face him and sort of holding him up by the shoulders. Sherlock’s haze has turned baleful rather than righteous, and with a great feeling of anger at himself, John recognizes the familiar stirrings of protective concern in his own chest.

“Take those wet clothes off and jump in the shower,” John says in a softer tone. Sherlock blinks down at him, so John sighs again and begins stripping Sherlock’s coat off of the taller man. It’s at least a stone heavier with the damp.

“Go,” John says, placing the flat of his palm between Sherlock’s boney shoulder blades and propelling him forward. “Get the water as warm as you can stand it.”

“Help, John,” Sherlock says sadly, which is how John ends up in the bathroom fixing a shower for Sherlock Holmes.

“There,” he says, once the loo is fogged with steam. Sherlock simply stands there and drips and shivers and pouts and makes John wants to kiss him, but John has to draw the line  _ somewhere _ for his own sanity, and apparently that line is drawn at undressing his flatmate whom he very badly wants to kiss. “Get in and stay in until you stop shivering, and when you come out I’ll have a nice cuppa all ready for you.”

Sherlock spends a very short time in the shower, which John disapproves of, but he doesn’t make Sherlock get back in because he’s absolute rubbish at making Sherlock do things. Sherlock comes out wrapped in one of John’s t-shirts, which is both too short and too wide on him, a pair of his own pyjama bottoms, and three dressing gowns.

“You’re still shivering,” John says. He tries to sound stern but instead just sounds insanely fond, so he compensates by shoving the mug of tea in Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock snatches it, narrowly avoiding scalding himself as burning liquid sloshes up over the rim, and hunches over the mug. Steam billows up into his face, and he closes his eyes and doesn’t move and shivers and—

“Oh my god you  _ idiot _ ,” John exclaims. He laughs, half fond and half exasperated as he so often is with Sherlock, and wraps his hands around Sherlock’s on the mug, bringing it closer to his own mouth and blowing gently on the tea. Sherlock’s fingers are freezing.

After a few seconds, John deems the tea at a safe enough temperature to ingest, and lets go. Sherlock makes a faint noise of protest, the bridge of his nose crinkling adorably, and sways towards John. “Cold,” he says.

“Oh, really?” John says mildly, barely restraining a smile as Sherlock pads closer until he’s pressing against John like an enormous, huffy, miserable feline. “Whyever could that be?”

“Joooooohn,” Sherlock moans, and he really does sound wretched, the poor thing. Before John quite knows what’s happening, his arms are firmly around Sherlock and he’s leading him into his bedroom with quick, quiet steps.

There’s a tussle over blankets. John isn’t paying much attention because he’s pressed completely against Sherlock, and that is… distracting. To say the least. In the end, they both get under Sherlock's comforter and curl up together on Sherlock’s pillow. Sherlock’s tea is abandoned on the nightstand.

It all goes by very fast; John hardly breathed throughout the whole process. He’s hardly breathing  _ now _ , because he has Sherlock Holmes making sweet, sleepy, snuffling noises as he presses his freezing nose against John’s neck, he has Sherlock Holmes falling asleep against him, he has Sherlock Holmes  _ in his arms. _

_ “ _ The urge to kiss you,” John whispers, once he’s positive that his flatmate is asleep and some of his shivering has subsided, “is very, very strong right now.”

Sherlock lifts his head just enough to meet John’s eyes for half a second before pressing his still-chilly lips to John’s mouth, which is how John finds out Sherlock’s not as asleep as John had thought.

John’s body reacts instantly, even if John’s mind is behaving very sluggishly. Immediately, his arms tighten around Sherlock’s thin frame and he pulls him closer, kissing and kissing and kissing Sherlock until the man is shaking even harder, this time from more than the cold.

John pulls away as Sherlock quivers on top of him, turning them both so that they’re stretched out on their sides, face-to-face on the pillow. Sherlock’s breathing shallowly, too shallowly for John’s liking, and even though John wants nothing more than to be able to kiss Sherlock Holmes until he dies, he forces himself to stop. To take it slowly, and gently, and cautiously, because Sherlock’s probably never done whatever this is before, and… and he just jumped in the fucking Thames.

“Hey,” John murmurs in a raspy voice as Sherlock cuddles close to him, kissing John sloppily but contentedly on the corner of his mouth. Sherlock is blinking slowly, slowly, slowly. He shakes, and holds John like he might be ripped away from him. “Uh. That was unexpected.”

Sherlock smiles at him. Everything is very, very quiet.

“Warm,” says Sherlock, and his voice sounds so fucking blissful, and  _ fuck _ , John is  _ so gone on this man. _

“Warm,” John agrees softly. He bends close and settles his lips against Sherlock’s forehead, determined not to move away until Sherlock physically forces him too. Judging by the way Sherlock’s clinging to him, it might be a very long time indeed.

John is absolutely ok with that.  


	18. You Should Have Seen It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where John dresses up as David Bowie for Halloween, and Sherlock is SHOOK.
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> “What did it look like?” John asks as he turns his head to nuzzle it against Sherlock’s cheekbone._
> 
> _Sherlock lets his hand on the wall slide down to the side of John’s face, touching it very lightly with his fingertips, and he emits a long, shaky sigh. “I’m not so skilled at these things,” he says. “I am, however, quite good at reading other people, and John, it looked—it looked like love.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 Prompt: “You Should Have Seen It.”
> 
> I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS CRACKFEST IS. I JUST LIKE DAVID BOWIE OKAY
> 
> (Chapter written by FinAmour <333)

For as long as John has known Sherlock, Halloween has been the detective’s favourite holiday. Not as much for the candy and for the overall macabre aesthetic as for the high number of crimes that occur on that particular night.

This is the year that Halloween becomes John Watson’s favourite holiday, too—and it’s got everything to do with the taste of Sherlock’s lips.

On a not-entirely-unrelated note, it’s also the year John decides to dress up as David Bowie circa his Ziggy Stardust days, partially due to the fact that Mrs. Hudson’s got a short red wig lying around for some very strange reason that John will never ask about.

Oh, and partially due to all of the leather. John may have come across a department store sale on various leather attire, and he may have innocently tried on some trousers that made his arse look incredible, objectively—and of course, he purchased them, because at his age, an incredible arse is something that should be celebrated, and he can’t simply wear leather trousers to work now, can he?

The costumes are Sherlock’s idea, anyway. He always insists the two of them dress up every year while they go on their traditional crime watch, because, according to him:

“John. If you and I go searching for criminals on Halloween without our costumes, the pair of us would surely stick out in a crowd like severed thumbs. Criminals are far more likely to commit a crime if nobody around them seems particularly suspicious.”

John listens with amusement, unsure of whether to first point out:

  1. That it’s not _actually_ a bad thing if people don’t commit crimes, or
  2. That the saying is “sore thumbs,” not “severed thumbs.”



He bursts into laughter and decides to go with the latter. “Sherlock,” he says. “You mean _sore_ thumbs, right?”

Sherlock looks at him as though he’s sprouted an extra head and begun speaking to him in Cantonese.

John doesn’t back down. “Sticking out like a _sore thumb,_ Sherlock. That’s it. That’s the phrase.”

Sherlock huffs. “That would be a _ridiculous_ saying. Why on earth would a _sore_ thumb stick out in a crowd of people?”

John has to admit that Sherlock’s got a point. A _severed_ thumb in a crowd would, in all actuality, draw much more attention than a simple sore one. So rather than argue, he proposes that the two of them carry Sherlock’s bag of severed thumbs from the freezer for extra protection, and Sherlock accuses him of trying to ruin Halloween.

The two of them stare at one another across the flat silently for several seconds—Sherlock’s forehead crinkled with distaste, John’s eyebrow lifted in a goading manner.

“I do hope you’re going to be ready and in your fancy dress soon,” Sherlock finally snaps at him. “We’ll be leaving here in approximately one hour.”

Sherlock is always like a kid at Christmas on Halloween night, and John—well, John tags along because someone’s got to keep Sherlock from doing something that might land him in jail, himself.

“Of course,” John says calmly as he starts off to his room to gather his leather collection, and Sherlock urgently reminds him to leave the severed thumbs in the freezer.

***

Red wig: check. Leather trousers, boots and jacket: check. Tight black cotton shirt: check. Charcoal-coloured eyeliner, white foundation, ruby lipstick: check.

Iconic red and blue lightning bolt over one side of John’s face, from his hairline, over his right eyelid, and down to his jaw: check.

John Watson, just like Bowie, is glam and bi and beautiful, and as he strolls out into the sitting room, he’s got an extra dose of confidence, and five extra minutes to spare.

Sherlock, who is waiting by the entryway, glances casually up at John as he enters, but when his eyes settle onto him, he inhales sharply and loudly. He very nearly jumps at the sight of John, in fact—eyes wide, jaw dropped—and he _flings_ the revolver in his hand onto the hard wooden floor.

Wait. Gun?

“Sherlock!” John cries out in a panic, and without thinking, he leaps towards Sherlock, covering his body and shoving him out of the line of possible fire. “Christ!” he yells as the two of them slam into the wall. “Is that bloody thing loaded?”

Sherlock remains frozen, silent, and John breathes heavily as he pulls away from Sherlock, his fingers still wrapped around Sherlock’s upper arms.

Sherlock only stares back, dumbfounded, and John shakes him again lightly by the shoulders to get his attention. “Sherlock, what were you _thinking,_ throwing around your revolver like that? You idiot! You could have been killed!”

Sherlock swallows before trying to speak. “I—“ he finally manages to say, his eyes almost comically wide, his lips parted mid-sentence. “Fake. The gun is fake, John. It’s a part of my outfit.”

A wave of relief surges through John as he exhales something breathy between an irritated sigh and a deranged laugh. And that—that’s when he looks at Sherlock. That’s when he _really_ looks at him, and realises what Sherlock is wearing, and—

Wow. John is suddenly very thankful that he’s got such a firm grip on Sherlock’s arms, because he thinks he can feel his knees beginning to buckle beneath him.

Sherlock’s got on black slacks, a black bow-tie, and an expensive black tuxedo jacket, halfway buttoned up over a crisp, white button-down shirt. His hair, normally wild and strewn about in an array of curls, is slicked back away from his face and atop his head. John allows his eyes to wander the length of Sherlock’s very dapper outfit under the guise of sizing up the costume, but he’s not kidding himself at all. Sherlock looks amazing.

“Wh—“ John breathes. “Who are you dressed as?”

This question seems to snap Sherlock back to Earth, because apparently, he’s deeply offended. “John,” he says. “I would think you’d _instantly_ know the answer to that, due to the fact that you’ve forcefully subjected me to these films on more than one occasion.”

John shakes his head and laughs as the answer dawns on him, and he finally lets his arms fall to his sides. “Of course,” he says. “Bond. James Bond. Not much of a stretch for you, is it?” he teases. “A suit and a tie? _Bold.”_

Sherlock squints at John. “I thought you’d _like_ it,” he says, actually appearing _hurt._

Um, yeah. John likes it a lot.

John doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to tell Sherlock exactly _how_ much he likes it.

“It’s brilliant,” John quickly reassures him instead. “You look like a regular ladykiller.”

Sherlock _massively_ rolls his eyes at John, and then looks back at him, apparently not quite as impressed with what _John_ is wearing. “And who, exactly, are you meant to be?”

Johns exhales another laugh. He’s not at all surprised that Sherlock has no clue. “David Bowie, of course.” He flashes Sherlock a smile before turning on his heel to walk back into the sitting room to collect Sherlock's fake gun. And he makes sure to linger a little bit, because his arse does look incredible, after all.

It’s now _Sherlock_ who allows his eyes to settle on John for what may be considered an inordinate amount of time. Especially inordinate when they settle on John’s leather trousers.

Sherlock clears his throat delicately. “Who?”

John bends over—sloooooowly—to pick up the revolver, and then turns back to face Sherlock. “Famous musician,” he says. “Under Pressure? Space Oddity? Starman?”

Sherlock presses his lips together as John returns the gun to his extended fingers, ignoring the urge to let his hand linger as well.

“Nope.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He gestures towards the right side of his own face. “What’s with the red and blue—?“

“Er, it’s a lightning bolt—“ John laughs nervously. "From the, er, album cover, it’s—it’s not a big deal.”

As Sherlock’s eyes wander back up to finally meet John’s, his expression becomes gravely serious. “John.” He shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“You thought the gun I had was real, and you _jumped in front of it_ in order to push me out of the way?"

John laughs again. Because yeah, he had done that, and he hadn’t even thought twice. “Of course I did,” he says sensibly. “You play with your loaded revolver all of the time—how was I to know any better?”

Sherlock’s expression then turns from serious back to the dumbfounded one he’d worn seconds before. “Why would you do that?”

“I was saving you from yourself. Again.” John smiles at him, finding his bewilderment a tiny bit adorable. “Because that’s what I do, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again. Opens it. Finally asks: “John. Why is that what you do?”

John replies simply: “If I don’t do it, who will?”

Sherlock’s expression shifts once again to slight confusion, and then to slight revelation as he silently stares back at John. “Yes, Good,” he finally mumbles as he tears his eyes away, shoving his fake gun into his pocket. “We’ll start off at the Blue Moon Pub down the street.”

He quickly slides away from the wall he had been leaning against and nearly bolts out the front door, and John follows quickly behind him.

***

Sherlock doesn’t even _look_ at John as they are headed towards the pub—in fact, he seems to be set on walking quite a few steps ahead of him. Which seems somewhat abnormal, but it’s also somewhat normal for Sherlock to _be_ abnormal, so John doesn’t find it any cause for concern.

And John asks no questions, of course—that is, until Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, spins around, and shoves John behind a large alleyway garbage bin.

“Hey!” John hisses at him as he topples against the side of the bin. "What are you—Careful! I don’t really fancy being covered in garbage, and—"

Sherlock doesn’t allow him to finish—the palm of one hand flies up to cover John’s mouth, and the other presses John further back into the side of the bin.

The space behind the bin is small, and Sherlock’s body is very close and very crowded against John’s, but it’s chilly outside, and John is immediately grateful for Sherlock’s unexpected warmth. Not that John could back away if he wanted to, as he is currently stuck between a very large bin and a very heavily-breathing James Bond, who is peering over the corner of the bin into the alleyway.

After a few seconds, Sherlock dips his head down to speak softly into John’s ear: “There are two men dressed in all black who just ran out of the pub at a high speed, and—oh.” Sherlock’s sides begin to shake, and he starts to wheeze a quiet laugh, his short breaths warm against John’s neck.

John’s curiosity takes over, and he finally swipes Sherlock’s hand off of his face. The hand immediately falls to settle on the hem of John’s trousers, and John has to swallow hard to contain the sound that threatens to escape his throat. He wonders faintly why Sherlock is laughing, but that’s when the thought hits him—how incredibly close Sherlock's face is to his. And he's pretty sure he’d stop breathing if he weren’t currently inhaling Sherlock’s glorious, spicy, musky scent.

God, what had the two of them been doing again?

“Sherlock.” John squirms a bit. His arms are hanging at his sides, but itching to wrap themselves around the man who is practically leaning into him. “Mind telling me what’s so funny?”

Sherlock’s cheek is now so very, very close that John can feel it tickling his own. “It’s nothing, John,” he says softly into John’s ear. “They aren’t criminals. They were just running out to have a cigarette.”

John can feel Sherlock’s skin even closer now, and he isn’t quite sure whether he’s imagining it or not, but he lets his eyes fall shut as he drowns in the sensation. “Sherlock Holmes.” He swallows and attempts to steady his voice. “Theorising without all the facts? I’m shocked.”

And John can also feel Sherlock’s hand—the one settled at the dip of his waist—squeeze once as Sherlock’s mouth brushes against his ear. “It’s all your fault, John,” Sherlock says slowly, his voice hushed.

John knows he’s not imagining it this time.

“My—" John can feel a surge of electricity flash through his body, goosebumps forming on his flesh. “How is it my fault?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he presses his lips softly against John’s cheek, and John clenches his eyes. And then he feels it happen again, and again, and again. He releases a shaky sigh—drowning, drowning, drowning—and a shiver courses steadily down his spine.

“You jumped in front of a bullet to save me,” Sherlock finally whispers lowly, the words hot in John’s ear.

“Pardon?” John bites his bottom lip as Sherlock continues to press his lips against his skin.

“At the flat, with the gun.” Sherlock punctuates every few words with another soft kiss, and John’s body shifts beneath Sherlock’s. “I know it was fake," Sherlock continues, "but, _John.”_ John’s name comes out in a ragged gust of air. “The look on your face when you thought I was in danger—you should have seen it.”

John is trying to follow every word Sherlock is saying, but he finds himself slightly distracted, and lightheaded and warm and unable to breathe, and—god, he needs Sherlock to be  _closer._ So he finally joins his arms across Sherlock’s thin waist, scooping him closer in one swift, strong movement.

“What did it look like?” John asks as he turns his head to nuzzle it against Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Sherlock lets his hand on the wall slide down to the side of John’s face, touching it very lightly with his fingertips, and he emits a long, shaky sigh. “I’m not so skilled at these things,” he says. “I am, however, quite good at reading other people, and John, it looked—it looked like _love.”_

“Oh.” John can feel his stomach fluttering, his flesh tingling as the realisation settles in. “That’s— _oh.”_

Of course John loves Sherlock. He’s _always_ known that. But right now, with the two of their bodies so very close, and with Sherlock’s words and observations, and the way Sherlock smells, and the feeling of his body and his skin and his lips and his hands wandering up and down John’s waist, he’s—

God. Yeah.

John _loves_ Sherlock.

John quickly readjusts his head until their faces and mouths are in alignment, and their lips meet immediately and enthusiastically.

Sherlock grins against John’s mouth as he begins to suck on his bottom lip, and John responds by sweeping his own tongue against his. John tilts his head, angling it so that he can deepen the kiss, and it quickly becomes sloppy and greedy and delicious, the way they are sliding their lips and tongues and teeth together.

“Sherlock,” John breathes as he pulls away for air. Sherlock’s mouth immediately dips even lower, his lips hungry for more, and he kisses John’s jaw, his chin, his neck.

“God, Sherlock, this is—“ John makes a bitten-off sound as Sherlock does something thrilling with his tongue.

“I have a confession to make,” Sherlock says in between kisses. John smiles, and Sherlock nips at John’s bottom lip.

“What’s that?” John asks.

“I’ve dreamt of kissing you for a very, very long time, but I’ve dreamt of kissing David Bowie for even longer.”

John bursts into laughter, his head pulling away slightly. “Are you serious? You’ve known who he is this entire time?”

Sherlock leans in and whispers again into John’s ear, a trace of amusement in his voice. “My second confession: seeing you dressed like that—and wearing those trousers—“ he bites again at John’s earlobe—“Is exactly why I dropped the gun in the first place.”

John clings more tightly to Sherlock as he continues.

“And the way you look—" Sherlock mumbles—“is also what distracted me from seeing what those men were.” He finally pulls away, his eyes meeting John’s, and John gazes back at him—Sherlock's lips are kiss-swollen, his sweaty, blushing face covered in splotches of makeup from John’s costume, but _God_ , John thinks, he still looks _incredible_.

“What I’m trying to say, John Watson,” Sherlock says as he squeezes John’s waist once more. “Is that, given my inability to stop crimes from occurring tonight, you’re a dangerous man. Perhaps a bigger threat to the safety of London than all criminals combined.”

John grins—beams, really—and he leans in to press his mouth next to Sherlock’s once more, humming with amusement. “I suppose Mister Bond will have to do something about that, won’t he?”

“No,” Sherlock says softly as he traces his lips down to John’s cheek and back up to his ear. “But I promise you that Sherlock Holmes most definitely will.”


	19. Oh Please, Like This Is The Worst I Have Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks up at him with solemn moonlight eyes.
> 
> John’s hands are shaking. He can’t look away, can’t turn his back in case he turns around again and Sherlock is gone. 
> 
> “John,” Sherlock whispers, the first thing he’s said since the ride over, and John can’t—he can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 19 Prompt: Oh Please, Like This Is The Worst I Have Done.
> 
> Post-Reichenbach where Mary doesn't exist YAYYYY
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3333

John can’t breathe. 

There’s blood smeared across Sherlock’s temple, blood in a long, rusty streak down his cheek. Blood matting his hair to his scalp in dark, wet clots, and running down into his eye and trickling down and around the shell of his ear and—

_ —goodbye, John— _

“—’m fine,” Sherlock slurs, holding himself upright through sheer willpower. His skin is almost grey with its lack of colour, and he sways on his feet, and this is what snaps John out of his brief panic and into action. He shoves past Donovan and Anderson, who are standing there gawking, and gets one arm around Sherlock’s waist before he collapses onto the pavement.

“You are not  _ fine, _ ” John says, a bit more snappily than he’d intended. His heart is still racing with that pure, animalistic fear, and he keeps his hold on Sherlock purposefully light, because he wants to grab him and pin him in place,  _ safe and warm and sound and whole and loved.  _ “I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that you have a concussion,” John says. He’s speaking to Sherlock’s collar bone, face inches away from Sherlock’s chest, because he can’t look up and see him like that, he can’t— “People who have concussions aren’t  _ fine. _ ”

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. His chest hitches on an aborted breath, right before John’s eyes, and John almost leans his head forward and kisses the pulse point leaping in Sherlock’s neck, just to be sure it’s really there.

“Alright, Sherlock?” Lestrade calls loudly from behind them. “Hurts to get clubbed in the head, doesn’t it? Although it might do you some good,” he chuckles, coming up beside John with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Might knock some sense into you—oh. Damn, mate, that looks bad.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock says, his words forming a little bit more thickly than usual. His pulse is leaping. John focuses on that. “Like this is the worst I have done.”

“I think he’s got a concussion,” John says shortly. He doesn’t trust his voice not to shake.  _ Get a grip, Watson. _ “I’m taking him to the A&E.”

Again, Sherlock doesn’t protest this. He just leans a little bit more heavily into John’s hands, his breaths loud in the space between them.

“Probably a good idea, yeah,” Lestrade says, and he sounds so calm. How can he be  _ calm _ ? Jesus, they’ve just got Sherlock back, he’s just come back from the  _ dead _ and everyone’s acting like that’s normal, like they have all the chances in the world to keep Sherlock Holmes safe and warm and sound and whole and loved in their lives, like he isn’t just as fragile and breakable as the rest of them and—

“...John?”

The way Sherlock says it—careful, cautious—lets John know that this isn’t the first time. He starts, and thinks  _ god I’m a mess. _

“Come on,” John mutters, getting his arm around Sherlock’s (narrow breakable precious) waist. He walks Sherlock to the curb and hails a cab.

Lestrade is motioning for them to follow him, and John has a feeling he missed something while he was having his crisis.

“He’s giving us a ride,” Sherlock rumbles in John’s ear. John nods.

The ride to the A&E is quiet, nothing but the sound of Sherlock’s shallow, measured breathing filling the space of the car. John still has one arm posessively around Sherlock, but he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t move it, and Sherlock doesn’t ask him to. If John lets go of Sherlock, he might not get him back, and that thought sets off panic in him that’s bone-deep and raw. 

Somehow, they get through a visit to the A&E without John breaking down and embarrassing himself. There’s thunder beneath his ribs and there’s lightning in his heart and he can’t stop touching Sherlock all the way home, and—and—

—that’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?—

—Sherlock has a mild concussion. It looked worse than it was, the rational side of John’s brain knows this, but that doesn’t keep him from worrying, that doesn’t keep him from walking Sherlock quietly into the kitchen, one hand cradled in the small of his back.

They didn’t clean all of the blood off of Sherlock’s face or out of his hair, and suddenly it seems the most important thing in the world to do that now. John lowers Sherlock down onto one of their kitchen chairs, hands brushing against him carefully, carefully.

Sherlock looks up at him with solemn moonlight eyes.

John’s hands are shaking. He can’t look away, can’t turn his back in case he turns around again and Sherlock is gone.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, the first thing he’s said since the ride over, and John can’t—he can’t—

He cups Sherlock’s (fragile lovely breakable precious fracturable) head in his hands and with a sound like he’s been punched he bends forward, pressing his trembling lips to Sherlock’s brow. Sherlock whimpers softly beneath him and his hands lift, and he wraps his arms around John’s waist, tugging him closer, closer. He’s breathing hard; he’s breathing, hot and consistent and real against John’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, over and over again. His voice is a raspy thing; wind through branches, leaves dancing on a breeze over cold grey pavement. “I’m sorry. John.”

John can’t answer him. His words sit, heavy like a stone, at the base of his throat, and he struggles to inhale around them as he scatters desperate kisses across Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock pulls him closer again and without thinking John climbs onto his lap. He straddles Sherlock’s hips, sliding one hand around the back of his head, his fingers slipping into coils of soft, dark hair, and skims his lips across the rough bandage spanning Sherlock’s temple.

“I thought,” John says, and brushes his nose against the bridge of Sherlock’s, inhaling the sweet, fleeting scent of him, “that I was going to lose you again. Sherlock I can’t lose you again, god, I—” he swallows sharply and Sherlock buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, a muffled noise escaping him. “I wouldn’t survive without you again,” he says. He leans his head against Sherlock’s, grasping him tight and close. “I barely did the first time.”

“Please don’t tell me that,” Sherlock whispers, lifting his face. He is wrecked; his eyes are wet and red, his lips pale. “You can’t say that, John, you are not allowed to even think that—”

“Ok,” John soothes. “Sherlock. Hush,” he says. He brings his lips close to Sherlock’s, murmuring gently against them and kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth comfortingly. Sherlock is shaking apart in John’s arms, now, and suddenly John is calm. This is what John is supposed to do, he knows that; to hold Sherlock Holmes, to protect him and to keep him safe and happy. A knot of aching emotion slowly begins to unravel in John’s chest, and he shifts his head a bit to the right, and he slots their lips together like pieces of a puzzle.

Sherlock falls completely still beneath John’s almost-kiss; and then he’s moving, twisting John’s jumper in his fingers and pulling John into him, closing his lips around John’s and kissing him with desperation.

Sherlock tastes like salt and fear and warmth and home. John catches Sherlock with his mouth, calms him with his lips, loves him with every beat of his heart.

Slowly, panic melts out of Sherlock’s limbs, rigid with terror; he moans, long and low, and John lets him slump forward against his chest, forehead to collar bone. He gathers Sherlock up in his arms and begins to rock them gently together, back and forth.

“I love you,” John breathes into Sherlock’s tangled curls. Sherlock’s shoulders shake, and his hot, wet tears spill over onto the skin of John’s neck. John lets him cry. “I love you in a way that I do not understand, Sherlock. You’re a part of me. A part of me that I can never lose. Please…” his voice breaks and he pauses, collecting himself. “Please tell me that I’m not going to lose you.”

“Never,” Sherlock gasps. He slides his hands up under John’s jacket and around his back, pressing both of his palms between John’s shoulder blades. “I’m sorry… John. I love you. I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to or you would have died—”

“Listen to me,” John says fiercely. He closes his eyes tightly, and keeps his grip on Sherlock gentle, but his voice is a crack of electricity. “It’s us, both of us, or nothing. Promise me that. Do you promise?”

Sherlock turns his head and kisses John softly on the side of the neck, and John loves him so much that it hurts.

“I promise.”


	20. I Hope You Have a Speech Prepared.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John.  
>  I love you.  
> SH_
> 
> I love you too, Sherlock.  
> You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to say that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was co-written by both FinAmour and unicornpoe. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Enjoy some super simple, tooth-rotting texting fluff.

_John. SH_

_I miss you. SH_

_Come home at once. SH_

 

Sherlock. I’ve been gone for half an hour.

I miss you, too.

 

_I don’t understand how you could deem it important to leave me for something so dull and inconsequential. SH_

 

You mean…my job?

 

_John, please. SH_

 

Please what?

 

_Just come home. SH_

 

Sherlock. I know this whole… thing between us is brand new. And I know this is my first time back at work since then.

But it’s only eight hours.

I’m sure we can make it.

 

_I’m going to burn all of your jumpers. SH_

_And chop up one of Molly’s corpses and put the pieces in the breadbox. SH_

 

Go ahead and burn them. I’ll burn your satin dress shirts. And then we’ll both simply have to walk around the flat topless all of the time. ;)

 

_You aren’t allowed to say such things to me when you’re NOT HOME. SH_

 

I’d love to come home, Darling, but I’ve got to pay the rent somehow.

We can’t all be perfect, gorgeous geniuses like you, and solve mysteries from the comfort of our laptop.

 

_You are perfect and gorgeous. And you help me solve mysteries. SH_

 

You flatter me.

 

_No. Why on earth would I do that? I’ve already gotten you into my bed. SH_

 

True. And into my bed. And the kitchen, and the sitting room. And the stairwell.

 

_If I were the type to use emoticons, I would be sending you a winking one right now. SH_

 

Allow me, then. ;)

This weekend was the best weekend of my life, Sherlock. I’m so glad we finally, _finally_ got our heads out of our arses.

 

_John, if you come home, I’ll have Mycroft see to it that we never have to pay rent again._

_I’ll just threaten to tell everyone about that time with the red velvet cake and his white trousers. SH_

_I would do anything for you John, don’t you see? And you won’t even leave your job for me. SH_

 

Humiliating your brother isn’t exactly a sacrifice for you, Sherlock.

And besides, I wouldn’t want to be indebted to him like that, anyway. I’d rather work to earn my money and then come home into the arms of the man I love.

 

_Oh, John. You’re so noble. I hate it. SH_

 

I love you, Sherlock.

I’m pretty sure this is the part where I kiss you passionately in the rain or something like that.

 

_You’ll need to be HERE to do such a thing. SH_

 

Oh, shit. I have to go. Patient arrived.

I’ll message you when they’re out.

 

_John. I love you, too. SH_

_So much. SH_

 

***

 

Ugh, I just got sneezed on about sixteen times in the span of two minutes, how’s your afternoon going?

 

_I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t ever get you out of my head, which is annoying, because I’m trying to catalogue mould spores and there’s no room up there for them. SH_

 

I can’t stop thinking about you, either.

 

_I used to miss you even when we were sitting in the same room. I find that now, missing you is bearable. Because I know I’ll have you with me again soon. SH_

 

I think it may be a requirement that I see you sooner rather than later, so I’ll try to get out of here a bit early today.

 

_JOHN THAT IS THE BEST NEWS. SH_

_Well. Not the best news. The best news would be that you are leaving NOW. But I will take what I can get. SH_

 

:)

I’m really gone on you, you know.

God, I can’t wait to see you once I’m home. I’m going to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed in your life.

 

_John._

_I love you._

_SH_

 

I love you too, Sherlock.

You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to tell you that, and now, I can just send it away in a text message, and it’s such a breeze.

Ugh. I have to go again. I’ll message you during my next break in a couple of hours.

 

_***_

 

_John. I have been languishing on the sofa for the past three hours, just thinking about you. You have reduced me to this. It’s all your fault that I’m nothing better than the rest of society now. SH_

 

Hello, Darling.

I can’t stop thinking about you, either. In every little thing I do, every word I say, everything I see.

If I were home right now, I’d hold you so tightly, and not let you go for hours.

 

_Just leave right now and come home so we can do that immediately. You know you want to. SH_

 

I do. I really do. But I can’t just leave whenever I like. Sarah would really get on my case for it.

 

_JOHN WATSON. SH_

_You had BETTER NOT be talking to that Sandra woman. Or smiling at her. Or letting her smile at YOU. SH_

_You are MINE, now, John. SH_

 

Jesus, Sherlock. Your possessive streak is showing.

I hate to tell you, but my job involves working with people, and that includes female people, and Sarah is my boss, so not talking to her isn’t an option. But…

I promise that all of my smiles are reserved exclusively for you.

And my kisses, and, you know. Everything else.

 

_John. You are making me blush. Stop. SH_

_...Don’t stop. SH_

_I want to kiss you right now, John. I want to kiss you more than I want anything else in the whole world. SH_

_John, please just come home to me. SH_

 

Okay, Sherlock. Fine.

You win.

I’m going to let Sarah know I’m not feeling well and take the rest of the afternoon off.

 

_John. SH_

_Yes, John. SH_

 

You’d better be coming up with ways to thank me.

I hope you have a speech prepared.

 

_I love you, John. I’ll see you soon. SH_

 

See you soon, Darling.


	21. Impressive, Truly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, Sherlock discovers that John can deduce people the same way he can, and he isn’t quite sure how to handle it.
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> “You’re proud of what I’m able to do,” John starts softly, “But you’re worried that it somehow means you’re less special. You also worry that this means I’m no longer going to need you.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand gently, and his fingers brush against the pulse leaping at the base of Sherlock’s wrist._
> 
> _John turns his face up to Sherlock, and it’s open and honest and bare. “I can assure you, Sherlock, that I will never be even close to as brilliant as you are, and that I will always, always need you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 20 Prompt: “Impressive, Truly.”
> 
> This chapter co-written by FinAmour and unicornpoe <33333333

“Oh, Sherlock,” John says with amusement. “You can be _such_ an arse sometimes.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John over the rim of his teacup, hoping that he looks adequately disdainful. “What did I do this time?” he asks, sipping his tea delicately.

John chuckles. The corners of his eyes wrinkle a little bit as he smiles fondly at Sherlock, and Sherlock has to look away. Sometimes looking directly at John is like staring at the sun.

“Oh, nothing. Just texting with Lestrade. He says you were up to your regular antics down at the yard, making everyone angry with your deductions.”

“Nothing new,” Sherlock says, heaving a sigh. “Not that I mind. If someone can’t handle the truth, I don’t think they’re the type of person I’d like to be around,” he says frankly.

Why would he choose to know someone who must be coddled all the time? No. He prefers solid, sensible people like John.

Honestly, he just prefers John.

“Either I’ve spent too much time around you and your cantankerousness is starting to rub off on me,” John muses, putting on a purposefully puzzled face, “Or what you’re saying actually makes sense.”

“Well,” Sherlock says. “We _do_ spend a lot of time together. People’s habits and opinions tend to rub off onto others eventually. For example—” He lets a small smile creep onto his lips in anticipation of what he’s about to say. “I’m fairly certain I started watching that _Project Runway_ programme you are so fond of by accident the other day. I nearly threw the TV remote across the room once I realised what I was doing.”

John laughs, a short, high, surprised thing that sends Sherlock’s stomach flipping elegantly into his throat. John’s laugh makes Sherlock feel like he’s listening to a symphony.

"You know I only began watching that after YOU did, Sherlock."

“Not true,” Sherlock says shortly. He hides his besotted smile behind his teacup.

“Absolutely true.”

“So, what annoying habit of _mine_ have you picked up on, John?” Sherlock asks, because if John doesn’t stop staring at him with that absolutely sweet expression on his face, Sherlock refuses to be held accountable for his actions.

John bites his bottom lip thoughtfully; it’s stained white from the pressure of his teeth, going dark pink around the tooth marks. A tattoo of his humanity, Sherlock thinks.

“I’ll bet,” John says after a moment of careful deliberation, playfulness making his syllables dance. “I’ll bet, by now, I can deduce a person the way you can.”

Sherlock nearly spits out his tea with laughter. Oh _John._ “You think _you_ can do what I do, John?”

“Yes,” John responds evenly. He’s smiling his placid doctor smile. The irrefutable one. His small hands are placed on his knees and his back is straight as a poker. “That’s what I said.”

Which is how they end up at the coffee shop down the street with steaming cups of tea. 

“Who will you be deducing?” Sherlock asks, pretending not to be nervous. He narrows his eyes, hoping to make John crack, but John isn’t moved.

“You choose,” John responds casually. His smile grows and he sips at his tea with relish.  “It would be cheating for me to pick, so I’ll allow you to decide.” 

“Alright,” Sherlock says slowly. He scans the coffee shop slowly, taking in every visible patron and rating them in his head from easiest to deduce, to most difficult to deduce.

“How about the elderly woman in the booth over there?” he suggests after a few moments, pointing to a woman who’s somewhere in the middle of both categories.

John follows Sherlock’s gesture with his eyes, lingering on the woman for a few seconds. He takes a careful bite of his scone and chews thoughtfully as he stares. There are a few crumbs stuck to his bottom lip, and Sherlock has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching across and brushing them away.

John sets down the scone. Clears his throat. Wipes his lips. “Just returned from Edinburgh," he says finally. "The colour of grass stuck to her right shoe says so—plus, she’s got a small shopping bag from Hodges Boutique, which only exists there. She was visiting her daughter, because she’s now editing photographs on her laptop of herself with a woman approximately twenty years her junior who has the same facial structure.”

Sherlock stares at John, dumbfounded. He leans back in his chair, suddenly feeling a bit faint. “Hm. Impressive, truly,” he murmurs, squirming in his chair. It had been more than impressive. In fact, John had pointed out things that Sherlock himself may not have initially noticed. Things that just prove how much more of a personable human John is than Sherlock.

It had to have been a mistake, though. Pure guesses. Beginner’s luck.

Sherlock’s going to need further proof.

“Try this young man in the seat next to the window,” Sherlock says, pointing. John gives him a look that clearly says ‘don’t point’ and so he lowers his hand, but not before John’s gotten a good, long look. This boy should be harder to deduce. He’s young, wearing nondescript clothing. A blank slate.

But John doesn’t seem phased. “Alright,” John says, nodding congenially. He sips at his tea as he speaks; “Just broke up with his girlfriend, but wants her back. You can tell because an attractive waitress has been flirting with him the entire time, and he hasn’t even seemed to notice—he’s got someone else on his mind. I see the two of them come into this shop often together, but he’s alone this time, and his eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep and possibly crying. He hasn’t stopped looking out the window since we came in—he knows that she frequents this coffee shop, so he’s brought his homework here, hoping she’ll stop in.”

John’s deductions flow out of his mouth like honey, easy and meandering in his warm, bright voice. Nothing like Sherlock’s pelted words, which hurl through the air like gunfire. John is telling a story that happens to be entirely true, and Sherlock is enthralled.

Sherlock can feel his brow growing damp. He’s breathing a little bit too fast to be considered normal. John is good at this. Really, really good.  

“We’ve got to go,” Sherlock blurts a little bit too loudly. John’s head snaps to look at him as he slams his teacup down, as do several others, but Sherlock ignores them entirely. He takes John by the wrist and pulls him from his seat and out the door of the coffee shop.  

“Sherlock,” John says in a tone of long-suffering and profound resignation. “What are you doing?”

“I need you to deduce someone else, someone _not_ in the coffee shop,” Sherlock says urgently. “You know these people too well.” His thoughts are wheeling through his head, scrambling his brain until it hurts. God. He hasn’t felt like this since he was eight years old and Mycroft knew more than him about metamorphosis.

“Here,” Sherlock says as two of them stop at the crosswalk. He pulls John in front of him and then waves an arm over John’s shoulder in indication of the target. “This man in the green jumper. What do you think?”

“Sherlock,” John mumbles, turning his head back to look up at Sherlock. He ends up resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, and his eyes are very, very blue. “Perhaps we should wait until he’s not within hearing range.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock snaps. He squeezes his fingers into John’s arm to keep them from shaking. _“Now, John.”_

John rolls his eyes, but complies; he lifts his head up and looks at the person that Sherlock’s showing him for half a second. “On his way home from work. Professor at a local university, based on the insignia of his briefcase. Teaches art, based on the smudges of coloured charcoal on his hands. Late getting home because he stopped for a pint or two on the way, based on the cigarette smell and the unsteadiness of his gait.”

Sherlock focuses his attention intently onto John, forcing all outside distractions to fall away. John is the singularly fixed point in Sherlock’s universe, and now… now something has changed. When had this _happened?_ He wonders it desperately. When had John become a genius, too?

John has turned around and is watching Sherlock with his clear, kind eyes. Sherlock’s no longer holding onto any part of him, and he regrets that.

“You’re very good at this,” Sherlock says, and means it.

John smiles softly at him. His eyes crinkle again. Sherlock wants to press the whorl of his own pointer finger to that delicate-looking skin beside John Watson’s beautiful eyes, and feel its silky smoothness.

“I learned from the best.”

John starts walking down the street, and so of course Sherlock follows him. It’s crowded now, people taking their evening commute home, and so the streets are rife with subjects just waiting to be taken apart with one short sentence. So Sherlock points to a person; John deduces them. And he’s brilliant at it every time.

And the more it happens, the weaker Sherlock feels. His stomach is fluttering and his head is swimming and his heart is pounding and his knees are shaking. He wonders if this is how John feels _all_ the time.

“Sherlock,” John says after about half an hour of this. “I think it’s time to go home now. I’m getting tired.” He looks up at Sherlock out of the sides of his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets. “I think I’ve deduced whatever half of London you hadn’t gotten to,” he adds with a grin and a breathy laugh.

“No, John,” Sherlock insists, grabbing John’s wrist again just in case he tries to escape. “Just a few more people, I—”

“Sherlock.” John isn’t walking. John is pulling his wrist out of Sherlock’s grasp. John is turning his hand so that he’s palm-to-palm with Sherlock, their fingers entwined. “Allow me to deduce something about you?”

Sherlock swallows, forcing his stomach to stay put. “Erm,” he croaks. “Alright.”

“You’re proud of what I’m able to do,” John starts softly, “But you’re worried that it somehow means you’re less special. You also worry that this means I’m no longer going to need you.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand gently, and his fingers brush against the pulse leaping at the base of Sherlock’s wrist. John turns his face up to Sherlock, and it’s open and honest and bare. “I can assure you, Sherlock, that I will never be even close to as brilliant as you are, and that I will always, always need you.”

Sherlock doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, what it means, what will come of it—he simply bends so that his head meets John’s, and kisses him softly on the lips.

John makes a happy noise and smiles against his mouth. The hand that isn’t holding Sherlock’s comes up to clutch his coat collar, and he holds Sherlock to him for a few seconds, pressing his lips firmly against Sherlock’s. Sherlock welcomes the actions _with very open arms._

“I knew you’d do that,” John jokes after he pulls away for a breath of air. He’s hovering right in front of Sherlock, talking in a warm whisper.

Sherlock huffs with faked offense, turning to walk away—but John moves fast, grabbing him around his waist and yanking him close once more.

John slides arms under Sherlock’s open coat and pulls the man close, smiling happily up at him, and Sherlock’s heart jumps around inconveniently. “Kiss me, you brilliant, beautiful genius,” John demands.

And Sherlock does. And John holds Sherlock close and promises him that he’ll never, ever find another him.


	22. I Know You Love to Play Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s new girlfriend is probably a murderer. Oh, and there’s spin the bottle.
> 
> ***  
>  _Sherlock can physically feel himself gulp nervously. And though his chest feels as though it’s on fire, and his intestines are twisting in various directions, he gives John a solid nod._
> 
> _John closes the distance between the two of them, planting his soft lips on Sherlock’s. Sherlock hopes that the whimper in his throat isn’t as audible as he thinks it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by FinAmour ❤️
> 
> Spin the Bottle, anyone? :D

John’s new girlfriend is most _definitely_ a murderer.

And although John fails to see this plain and obvious fact, to Sherlock, it’s clear as day.

Sherlock just knows. How? Because he’s Sherlock Holmes, and he’s a genius, and he’s never wrong.

Luisa—If that is, in fact, her name—is tall, and graceful, and beautiful. She speaks with a German accent, and she looks at John as though he is something special.

John _is_ special, in fact, but only Sherlock is allowed to know that.

So she is _probably_ , quite likely, most definitely a murderer.

John Watson is a stubborn idiot. He won’t listen to Sherlock when he informs him repeatedly of his new girlfriend’s murderous tendencies. He only argues that Sherlock is determined to keep him from having any semblance of a normal relationship, and though Sherlock is admittedly not so knowledgeable when it comes to that type of thing, he’s rather certain that being murdered may also put a damper on a courtship.

It’s for that reason, and that reason alone, that Sherlock had ended up at some idiotic birthday party at Lestrade’s flat, sitting in a circle on the floor with a half-dozen intoxicated members of the Yard. Playing an idiotic game called “Spin the Cheap Wine That Was Probably Bottled Last Tuesday,” or something like that, wherein the sole purpose seems to be shoving one’s tongue down another’s throat for amusement.

The entire evening had been hideous and unbearable, but the things Sherlock does to ensure John’s safety are at times astounding to even himself.

Sherlock had previously followed John and “Luisa” on each of their incredibly dull dates (without John’s knowledge of course, because John, as previously established, is an idiot). And John would have been unaware of Sherlock’s tracking them on this particular evening as well, if Sherlock had not burst into Lestrade’s flat and tackled Luisa to the kitchen floor while calling her a vile murderess.

John had not been too happy about that.

There had been some yelling involved (on John’s part) and some crying involved (on Luisa’s part) and a calm explanation, of course (on Sherlock’s part).

“She had a _knife,_ John,” Sherlock had said urgently.

“She was getting ready to cut Greg’s _cake,_ Sherlock,” John says in a long-suffering manner, his face dark red and very close to his, his breath and words heavy and hot on Sherlock’s face.

“Who?” Sherlock had asked.

John had glared at Sherlock (with his stupid beautiful eyes) and yelled at him (again) (with his stupid perfect pink lips) that he’d better not so much as _look_ at Luisa for the rest of the evening, or he’d throw all of Sherlock’s refrigerated body parts into the bins.

“I saved your life, John,” Sherlock had reminded him calmly.

John had simply rolled his eyes and spun around, returning to the party and back to the murderous wench, as Sherlock had called out to him that he could simply thank him later.

 

***

 

Sherlock hadn’t heeded John’s warning, of course. The night had continued, the drinks had been poured, general merriment had ensued, and Sherlock had watched Luisa like a hawk the entire night. Each time she had leaned down to whisper something into John’s ear, catching Sherlock’s eye to ensure he’d noticed. Each time John had said something to her that probably hadn’t been even remotely amusing, and she’d laughed loudly enough to wake the dead. Each time John had dipped his head to kiss her and she had kissed him back with reckless abandon, and Sherlock had felt his guts twisting and turning because JOHN, YOU SHOULD NOT BE KISSING MURDERERS.

And now, to make everything so much worse, Sherlock sits cross-legged in this cursed circle watching Anderson kiss Donovan, trying to decide if he’s got enough time to run into the loo and vomit before he _murders Luisa first._

Molly and a tipsy Lestrade are seated on either side of Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan and John and the Munich Demon sprawled out in the circle in front of him.

Donovan spins, and the bottle lands on Molly, and as she swoops in to kiss her on the lips, Molly looks quite uncomfortable. An appropriate reaction, as she had probably just acquired some brand of Anderson-specific herpes virus from Donovan kissing him previously.

Molly spins the bottle, and the bottle points to Sherlock. She blushes furiously and becomes immediately flustered, which is also unsurprising, given that it had been the same reaction she’d had when he’d kissed her on the cheek at Christmas to thank her for her thoughtful gift.

“I’ll just give you a little peck on the cheek,” she mumbles, and Sherlock thanks her profusely, because he surely doesn’t want Herpes Simplex Anderson.

Molly leans over quickly gives him a tiny kiss on the cheekbone, and instantly acts as though she may pass out.

Sherlock asks her if he’s playing the game correctly.

“Yeah,” John suddenly pipes up from across the circle, his voice wholly unimpressed with a shade of annoyance, after not having spoken to him the entire evening. “You’re playing it correctly, alright.”

Sherlock frowns at him curiously, but John’s attention has already shifted to Murdery Mistress of Cake. He’s leaning over to whisper something into her ear _again,_ and Sherlock does everything in his power not to fling the empty wine bottle at her hideous poofy dress.

Regardless, Sherlock can’t help but notice John’s fists clenching and unclenching in his characteristic angry manner—probably because he senses he’s about to be murdered or something.

Lestrade spins the bottle. It lands on “Luisa,” and regardless of apologising to John for making a move on his date, he proceeds to kiss her for a touch too long, and then proceeds to blame it on the alcohol. John laughs and wishes him a happy birthday.

Luisa wraps her foul, murderous hands with her bright, blood-red nails around the bottle, and she spins it in a circle, and it lands pointing to the bookshelf. Specifically, to a book entitled “The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck,” which Sherlock, in fact, deems highly kissable as far as books go.

She catches Sherlock’s eye, arches a brow at him, and blatantly moves the bottle a half-turn to point it to John.

“Cheating!” Sherlock cries out, pointing his finger at her in an accusatory manner. “You’re cheating! You’re supposed to kiss the book!”

Murder Bitch shrugs lightly and turns her head to plant a disgusting, slurpy kiss on John’s mouth, and Sherlock has to dig his nails into his hands to keep from reaching up and ripping out her cheap hair extensions.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John reassures him as he pulls away from her, his mouth covered in her ugly red lipstick. “It’s just a game, after all.”

Sherlock hates cheaters. Sherlock hates murderers who are also cheaters. He hates stupid parties and he hates stupid games and he hates having to witness horrible kissing. He hates watching John kiss women and he hates watching John kiss _anyone,_ and he hates people who snub literature.

And oh, does he _hate_ Luisa.

Sherlock glares and glares and glares at her, and as she smiles back at him snidely, he can’t help but feel he may soon be adding “murderer” to his own self-description, as well.

Lestrade clears his throat loudly, undoubtedly feeling the tension, even in his intoxicated state. He leans into the circle and picks up the wine bottle, handing it to John. “Your go, Mate,” he says, a bit urgently.

And Sherlock knows he’s not imagining it—the entire room goes a sudden deadly quiet, and everyone is focusing their attention intently on John.

John has his poker face on, and he gives Luisa’s claws a squeeze before taking a deep breath and placing his hands on the bottle.

He spins.

A collective gasp emerges from each person in the room.

The bottle is pointing directly at Sherlock.

And all goes completely silent, except for the seventy-five obscenities screaming in Sherlock’s head as he stares at the bottle, unblinking.

“Spin again, Sweetheart,” Luisa says as she squirms, fake saccharine not hiding the panic in her voice.

“You _would_ suggest that,” Sherlock snaps at her. “You seem to think this game must only be played by _your_ rules.”

He can feel his face becoming more and more heated, his brow becoming moist with sweat, his breathing becoming slightly shallow.

“Sherlock,” John says calmly, and it’s the comforting nature of his voice that draws Sherlock’s eyes away from Luisa’s, and to John’s bright blue ones.  

John is gazing back at him openly, with a look of concern laced with apprehension, and it breaks Sherlock’s heart. “It’s okay,” John says. “Sherlock, we don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

“No,” Sherlock replies suddenly. “It’s fine, John.” His eyes crinkle into a smile, holding John’s gaze. “It’s only a game.”

“Right.” John swallows thickly and shifts where he sits, very, very slowly beginning to slide his body towards Sherlock.

He moves closer, closer, closer, not breaking eye contact, and Sherlock realises, as John begins to crowd his space, that they are both trembling slightly—odd, because the room is actually rather warm.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Donovan snaps at them. “Just _kiss_ already.”

Sherlock can feel himself turning bright red, and he turns his head and opens his mouth to say something scathing to Donovan, but he doesn’t get the chance. John suddenly has his hand tucked under Sherlock’s chin, tipping his face up to meet his, and he’s looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

“You okay?” John mouths, his soft fingers holding his head into place, forcing Sherlock to look back at him.

Sherlock can physically feel himself gulp nervously. And though his chest feels like it’s on fire, and his intestines are twisting in various directions, he gives John a solid nod.

John closes the distance between the two of them, planting his soft lips on Sherlock’s. Sherlock hopes that the whimper in his throat isn’t as audible as he thinks it is.

The kiss is quick, and chaste, and dry and sweet and lovely, and regrettably feels as though it’s over before it even begins.

There is nothing truly spectacular about it—and yet Sherlock feels, inexplicably, the same sort of thrill he’d feel when solving a triple homicide. Magnified one hundred fold.

And as John leans away, not letting go of Sherlock’s face and smiling back at Sherlock in a way that only John can, Sherlock wants, more than _anything,_ to pull him back in and kiss him again.

He doesn’t.

“Well,” Anderson says in his idiotic Anderson voice. _“That_ was anticlimactic.”

John lets his hand fall from Sherlock’s chin; Sherlock immediately mourns the loss of it. And as John moves back to where he’d been seated next to Fraulein Foul Play, Sherlock watches him, and he looks happier than he’d seen him in a long time.

But then he notices the smug grin on Luisa’s face as she takes John’s hand, and John breaks his gaze from Sherlock and he _lets her,_ and Sherlock suddenly wishes for _himself_ to be murdered.

“Your turn,” Luisa barks at Sherlock. “Unless you’d like to forfeit, of course,” she giggles.

Sherlock glares at her. “I’m going to spin.”

And he does.

The bottle seems to spin in slow motion—the air is heavy in the room, and it feels as though everyone has stopped breathing as they watch the bottle spin around once, and twice.

On the third spin, it lands pointing directly to John.

Everyone gasps.

Luisa’s face drops and she pulls John closer.

John looks back up at Sherlock and he actually _smiles,_ and Sherlock finds himself overcome with desire.

Mostly, the desire to kiss John again. But also, the desire to shut up the vile murderess—and everyone else—for good.

Sherlock moves the bottle to the side. Scoots his body forward through the circle, closer to John, and John watches him.

Sherlock moves in as closely as he can while the two of them remain cross-legged, pressing their knees firmly together. With one hand, Sherlock cups the back of John’s head softly, splaying the palm of the other against John’s cheek, and John reflexively pulls his hand away from Luisa to wrap around Sherlock’s back.

“Take two,” John says.

Sherlock kisses John. This time, it’s very different.

As their lips seal together, John wraps his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt, clutching the material and pulling him immediately closer, and Sherlock presses John’s head into his, angling it so that their lips press hard and purposefully together.

Sherlock makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat, and he can feel John smiling against him.

He takes this cue to cautiously poke his tongue at the seam of John’s lips, and John tilts his head upwards as they part.

John begins to brush his tongue against Sherlock’s slowly, experimentally, and when their tongues meet, there’s a collective gust of air and a happy noise between them, somewhere between a groan of surprise and a sigh of relief.

Sherlock continues to cradle John’s face delicately in his hands as he sweeps his tongue beneath John’s with slightly more confidence, and John swipes his own over Sherlock’s before he takes his full bottom lip into his mouth.

Twisting his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt, John scrambles to his knees to pull himself closer, until his chest is aligned with Sherlock’s, moving steadily up and down against his. Their lips slide together, tongues tangling, warm and wet, and Sherlock would be absolutely sure all of the oxygen in the room had disappeared if not for the loud sounds of the two of them breathing heavily into one another’s mouths.

 _“John Watson!”_ A woman calls out suddenly in a thick German accent. “What the _fuck?!”_

Sherlock is suddenly pulled back into reality. Oh. John’s murderous girlfriend, oh.

Oops. 

Sherlock pulls away quickly, his eyes wide, and John is looking back at him, breathless, his own eyes dark and full of something like confusion and something like contentment. 

“Apologies,” Sherlock mumbles as he begins to panic, pulling himself as far away as he can, as quickly as he can. “I don’t think I… I don’t think I understand how the game is supposed to work.”

God. What an idiot he had been. Everyone in the room is, again, utterly silent, and every single eye is on him. 

Sherlock’s chest clenches, his face burning with embarrassment. He scrambles off of the ground, darts to the front door of Lestrade’s flat, flings it open, runs outside, and slams it shut behind him.

He leans against the wall and tries to catch his breath, tries to allow his mind to catch up with everything that had just happened, and oh, he’s just kissed John, _really kissed him,_ and oh, he thinks he may pass out, and oh, he also just left John with a _murderer,_ and—

Oh. John. 

Unfathomably, John is standing there. Right in front of him, asking him if he’s alright.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock retorts. He’s trembling with embarrassment, with rage, his voice quivering. “Fine, John. Don’t worry about me. Just go back inside to your murderous girlfriend, and—“

“Can’t really do that,” John says, a hint of amusement in his voice as he takes Sherlock’s hands into his, and Sherlock’s world and brain and body suddenly seem to stop spinning.

Sherlock blinks and inhales, raising his head up to meet John’s eyes. “What?”

“Sherlock,” John says. “Luisa isn’t a murderer, but she’s not a very nice person. She had some things to say about you, and I had some choice words to say back to her, and she told me to fuck off, and now I’m pretty sure she’s in there snogging Greg.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “Who’s Greg?”

John chuckles and tilts his body forward ungracefully, falling against Sherlock and wrapping him in his arms. Sherlock stills at first—unsure of how to react.

Somehow, apologising seems like the right thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says.

John kisses him on the cheek, and Sherlock’s knees nearly buckle beneath him.

“Don’t be sorry, Sherlock,” John says soothingly. “That was a _good_ thing that happened back there.” And he presses his lips against Sherlock’s flesh again, and again, and again.

“It...it was?” Sherlock swallows, his skin feeling as though it may blister beneath the hotness of John’s lips.

“Yeah,” John whispers, holding him tightly. “It was very good, don’t you think?”

“Oh.” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say next. “I mean, John, I know you love to play games, but I didn’t realise quite how _much—“_

John shakes his head vigorously. “You’re an idiot, Sherlock,” he laughs into Sherlock’s ear. “I’ve never been kissed that way before, you know.”

“No,” Sherlock mumbles. “Nor have I.”

“Well, then—“ John says, leaning back to look Sherlock in the eye. “If it’s alright with you, perhaps we could keep doing it.” 

Sherlock frowns at him, but the glowing feeling in his chest makes him wonder if his heart is about burst. “You mean, right now?”

John smiles, reaching up to brush a curl away from Sherlock’s face. “Now,” he says. “Later. Tomorrow, the next day, and every day after that.”

Sherlock can no longer contain the giant smile that seems to be spreading on his lips.

John leans in and brushes his own lips against Sherlock’s, slowly and sweetly. “Does that sound good?” he asks.

Sherlock doesn’t need even a second to think about his answer. “That sounds very good,” he replies enthusiastically, and John leans in to kiss him once more.

It’s brilliant, and Sherlock feels he could do it for hours and hours and hours, kissing John Watson. But then—he leans away.

“Sherlock?” John mumbles. “Are you—“

“I’m afraid it will have to wait, John,” Sherlock says. “Two government agency cars just pulled into the driveway. And I believe I know who they’re here for.”

John’s face falls into Sherlock’s shoulder as he tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re joking.” 

“No.”

Four men in black suits emerge from the vehicle. “We’re here to arrest Hannah Muller,” one of them says. “A dangerous fugitive who you may know as Luisa.”

Sherlock nods and points into the flat. “I believe you’ll find her snogging with the head detective inspector of New Scotland Yard.” He smiles genuinely as the men walk in and cuff her.

And as they walk her out, Sherlock looks her in the eye to ensure she’s paying close attention, but before he can kiss John, John has already pulled him down and begun passionately kissing him within an inch of his life, right where she can see it.

And now, this horrible night simply could not get any better.


	23. This Is Not New, It Only Feels Like It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft, soft, soft retirementlock. 
> 
> ***  
>  _  
> Sherlock shifts out of the light and closer to John, his violin hanging from the fingertips of his left hand, his shoulders stiff with… something. His face is so deliberately blank—blanker than John has seen it in years—that John’s heart breaks a little bit, right there at three pm on a Sunday afternoon._
> 
> _“John,” Sherlock repeats, not quite meeting John’s eyes, either. “There’s a cottage. In Sussex. It’s by the sea. It…” his voice fades away small for a moment; his moon-blue eyes flicker to John’s and then away. “It has bees.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that John thinks of is "To a Stranger" by Walt Whitman and it's devastatingly TRMOJAS. This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3

“I’m leaving Baker Street. I’m retiring.” 

John nearly drops his cup of tea.

It’s one of those long, slow, golden afternoons. The drapes are pushed back and Sherlock stands in the middle of the carpet, dust motes dancing in the shimmering air. He’s outlined in a halo of gold that obscures his features; the slim, elegant lines of his arms and shoulders and back as he grips his violin, the wandering wisps of his greying curls, losing some of their starkness to the relief of a burnished sun.

Carefully, carefully, John sets his tea in the center of the coffee table. It is innocuous among their combined clutter; newspapers and books, a scalpel, someone’s keys, a singular glove.

_ I’m leaving Baker Street. _

John hears the finality in those words clearer than anything. It’s a skill he’s acquired over the past twenty years; this ability to read Sherlock Holmes when no one else can. It’s a gift.

John forces himself to breath past the knot of panic tightening in his throat. God. Maybe he  _ can’t _ read this man.

“For how long?” he asks, keeping his gaze trained on his knees. His old knees. His knees that work a bit less smoothly than they used to. Maybe he’s an inconvenience? Maybe he gets in the way of Sherlock, now? The thought makes him sick.

“John,” Sherlock says, and his voice is just off enough that John’s forced to look up at him.  “I can’t see you,” John says, and it’s true; the sunlight still blinds him, keeps Sherlock inaccessible and god-like before John. John’s voice sounds like it’s being scraped out of him.

Sherlock shifts out of the light and closer to John, his violin hanging from the fingertips of his left hand, his shoulders stiff with… something. His face is so deliberately blank—blanker than John has seen it in years—that John’s heart breaks a little bit, right there at three pm on a Sunday afternoon.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, not quite meeting John’s eyes, either. “There’s a cottage. In Sussex. It’s by the sea. It…” his voice fades away small for a moment; his moon-blue eyes flicker to John’s and then away. “It has bees.”

“And you… you own it? You’re moving away?”

_ Away from London? _

_ Away from Baker Street? _

_ Away from me? _

Sherlock nods. Sherlock  _ never _ nods; nothing as inaccurate as nodding for the great Sherlock Holmes, not if words will do the trick just as well. He does so love to hear himself speak.

“But you love London,” John whispers into the stillness of the room.  _ But I love you, _ John thinks.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and he laughs, and it’s desperate and breathy and not at all amused. He looks, suddenly, like he’s going to cry. John doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ “I do. I do love London, and Baker Street, and… but you said so yourself, John,” he says, and why does he sound like he’s pleading? “I’m only getting older. And there are so many things I want to do, John, things that I cannot do while continuing to be a consulting detective full time. I want to… I’m tired. I’m ready to devote my life to something.”

“Won’t you be bored?” John asks. He closes his hands into fists, pressing them hard into the tops of his thighs. “Without cases and, and chasing people through the streets at all hours if the night? God, your massive, beautiful brain,” John says, laughing in just the mirthless Sherlock had moments ago. “It’s going to stagnate, Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. Locks his eyes with John’s. His irises are almost white against the backdrop of gold. “I’m going to be happy.”

John feels like he’s been punched. He loses all of the air in his lungs and crumples just a bit, curling forward so slightly that he’s sure Sherlock doesn’t notice.

_ I’m going to be happy.  _ Does that mean he  _ isn’t?  _ John thought that their life together was good. Almost two whole decades of midnight chases, of takeaway in the early hours of dawn, of crap telly on the weekends and gentle, lingering smiles over steaming cups of tea. Maybe it isn’t all that John has always wanted—maybe he’s always longed for more—but he came to terms with that years ago; comforted himself with the fact that  _ Sherlock  _ was content. Nothing else really matters.

“Oh,” John says faintly. Suddenly he can’t be in this room anymore, can’t sit here before the man that he has loved for an eternity and watch him go. He stands, bumping into the coffee table as he makes his way to the door.  “Good. Good, then, I’m glad. I want you to be happy, Sherlock, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted so. Good. I—yeah, great—“

“John.”

Sherlock’s hand is on John’s arm. His cool fingers circle John’s wrist gently, brushing the skin of his palm, and John stops as if he’s being pinned in place.

They don’t ever touch, not really. Not unless one of them is hurt, or drunk, or too tired to stand up on their own, and even then it’s only the most perfunctory of touches. Sometimes, when Sherlock is sleeping on the sofa, John brushes the curls back from his eyes. But that’s a secret.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and John can’t look at him, can only close his eyes and hope that he isn’t too pathetically obvious, and hope that he doesn’t fall down. “John. Come with me. Please.”

Unbidden, a poem John heard once rises up in his mind, lines of bold text scrolling behind his eyelids:

_ I am to see to it that I do not lose you. _

John turns in Sherlock’s loose grasp and buries his face against his friend’s chest, wrapping his arms around the small of Sherlock’s back and just  _ holding on. _ There is half a second where Sherlock is stiff; and then he melts into John, the angles and curves of his body molding perfectly to John’s until there isn’t a centimeter of space between them.

“God you giant  _ prick,”  _ John chokes. “There are a million better ways you could have told me that, Sherlock, without sending me into cardiac arrest.”

“I…” Sherlock’s voice is small and shocked and pleased. John can hear his heartbeat through his chest, thundering. “I didn’t know if you’d want… I didn’t know…”

“Sherlock,” John says seriously, pulling back a little bit so he can look him in the eyes. Sherlock’s gaze is heartbreakingly wet. “All this time together,” John muses softly, “and you still haven’t figured out that wherever you go, I will follow. Until the end.”

That small, almost shy smile that John loves so much spreads across Sherlock’s face. He looks years younger, like that; he almost looks like the man John met all those years ago, except… better. Happier. Content.

_ I’m going to be happy. _

God. John wants to kiss him.

This is not new. It only feels like it.

“You’d leave Baker Street for me?” Sherlock questions, almost disbelieving. He is holding John carefully, one palm curled of his hipbone, one stroking hesitant lines up the length of John’s spine. “You would leave your home?”

“You are my home,” John says, not stopping to think how that might sound. It’s the truest thing he’s ever said, and John Watson and Sherlock Holmes do not communicate in verbal truths. He considers regretting it, but he just can’t bring himself to. It’s time.

It’s time.

“You are my home, Sherlock,” John repeats with more fervor, sliding his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and bringing him forward until their foreheads rest together. “I will leave my whole life behind if I can stay by your side.”

Sherlock gasps in a quick breath and then lets it out slowly; it hitches in the middle, and then rattles weakly in the space between them. He’s trembling very, very slightly in John’s hands, and he’s warm, and solid, and real, and John gets to keep him. John gets to have him. Until the end.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Sherlock says. “I never thought I’d live this long until I met you, and then you came and you made me want things that I’d never wanted before, and I want you to be with me while I have them. I want—I—“

John hushes him softly, turning his head so he can brush his lips against the velvety softness of Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s words break off sharply; he wilts even closer to John, sighing sweetly, and so John does it again.

“I want that too.”

And again.

“I’ve wanted it forever.”

And again.  

“I want you.”

And again—

And Sherlock turns his head this time, and their lips catch, and they freeze there, barely touching, hardly breathing, just the edges of their mouths brushing petal-soft and warm.

Sherlock shudder-sighs into John’s mouth, and it flicks a switch in John’s chest, suffuses him with heat, steals all of his breath away. He presses a little bit closer and closes his lips over Sherlock’s, kissing him like he’s wanted to do every single day since they met, and Sherlock sinks into him with a tiny sound that makes John’s chest ache. He kisses Sherlock with decades of untold love; he kisses him like maybe he won’t ever get to again.

But then “John,” Sherlock says, sounding like he’s been shattered from the inside out, and John takes him close in his arms, and knows that he’ll never have to let go again.

***

Their friends help them move in.

Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. Mike. Harry. Even Mycroft. They make a day of it, transforming the little stone cottage by the sea from a house into a home, filling the walls full of laughter and love and John and Sherlock’s messy, beloved clutter.

And after they leave, after the last of them drive away, taillights winking in the distance— after, John and Sherlock are alone.

Sherlock stands facing the back window, his hands clasped behind his back loosely, staring out over the dusky grey waves crashing against a rocky shore. He is far, far away; features placid, and chest rising mellowly with his breaths. John slips his arms around Sherlock’s waist, propping his chin against his loves shoulder.

They stay that way, still and entwined in the silence, until the last rays of golden sun disappear from the darkening sky. And then Sherlock sighs, and John presses their cheeks together, anchoring him as he comes back to earth. Just as he always has. Just as he always will.

“How are we feeling?” John whispers. His hands are cupped over Sherlock’s belly, and the warmth of Sherlock’s skin soaks John’s palms.

Sherlock’s eyes drift closed as he leans back into John.There is a smile on his face. “I have to say something,” he says, equally quietly. “I have to say that John Watson… I love you. I love you more than I can ever possibly articulate.”

For one instant, John thinks that he may turn to flame with the tenderness he feels for this man. Then the embers ebb, but his love does not. “I will love you forever, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispers. “Until the end.”

Sherlock turns his head, kissing John lingeringly on the underside of his jaw.

“And forever after that.”


	24. You Know This. You Know This to be True.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to pull John’s body close to his and hold him until the world stops spinning. He wants to tell John that even though he isn’t quite sure what all of this means, or what he’s doing—he thinks it might mean he loves him with every gust of breath and every bone in his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written by FinAmour <3
> 
> References to Reichenbach and potential angst.

The golden moment Sherlock catches John Watson’s sapphire eyes from across the laboratory at Bart’s, it dawns on him that he’d spent far too much time avoiding the truth. Since then, however, Sherlock has slowly but surely found that many of his former beliefs have spread beyond the realm of the impossible.

 

_Six Truths John Watson Has Taught Me_

_By Sherlock Holmes_

  * _Interpersonal relationships may actually be worthwhile, and do not merely serve to distract people from superior endeavours. The introduction of a person into one’s life may add completeness to one’s overall sense of well-being; inasmuch causing one to feel inexplicably whole._



 

On their first night together, John gazes at Sherlock over the table at Angelo’s, the candlelight dancing over his deliciously handsome features. John is Sherlock’s flatmate, now, and he laughs at his jokes and he calls him amazing and he helps him solve murders. And though Sherlock never before believed a person might see any value in _him_ , and his _life—_ as John patiently waits outside a building where he’d just killed a man for him, Sherlock begins to wonder. 

 

  * _I once thought myself a selfish man incapable of loving another or putting someone’s life before my own; but even moreso could never have imagined one doing so for me._



 

John stands before Sherlock at the swimming pool, unguarded and adorned in a Semtex vest, and he leaps in front of a sniper gun to save Sherlock’s life. It is then that Sherlock realises John might be willing to do absolutely anything for him; this scares Sherlock more than he can say, and is a fact that is dangerous to both himself and John alike.

Because Sherlock, in turn, would do anything for John.

He stands on the rooftop of Bart’s, tears cascading, unbidden, down his face, and John is holding his hand out to him, pleading for him to stop.

And Sherlock wants to. God, he wants to stop.

He wants to pull John’s body close to his and hold him until the world stops spinning. He wants to tell John that even though he isn’t quite sure what all of this means, what he’s doing, he thinks it might mean he loves him with every gust of breath and every bone in his body.

But there is only one thing that Sherlock wants more—and that is for John to be safe from harm. So as Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts his body forward from the ledge, he has a single thought:

“Sherlock Holmes, you are in love with John Watson. This defies everything you ever thought possible about yourself, and yet you know this—you know this to be true. Perhaps you always have.”

 

  * _My ability to love, though originally thought to be limited, apparently knows no boundaries; and the happiness of John Watson is immeasurably more vital to me than my own._



 

Over the next two years, two years _too long,_ Sherlock learns that his love for John Watson is, in fact, limitless. When he sits on the cold floor of a Serbian prison, kept sane and alive solely by the memory of John’s laugh, he knows that he will wait for John—he will wait as long as it takes.

When Sherlock returns from the dead, and he finally sees John for the very first time in many, many months, John is about to propose to her. But John’s happiness is what Sherlock values the most, and so he swallows his own desires. 

 

  * _I would die for John Watson. Live for him. Die for him again. And I would kill for him without question._



 

When a bullet rings out from her gun and strikes Sherlock in the chest, he knows his work protecting John is not done. Sherlock’s heart _beats_ for John Watson; and it beats _again_ for John Watson, and again, and again and again and again; it always will. And soon after, Sherlock kills a man for John, for his pressure point, for his Conductor of Light. Though utterly insane, it seems to have become yet another way to prove that they love one another without needing to use the words.

 

  * _Time heals many wounds; this includes the physical ones as well as those of the mind and the heart._



 

After she is gone, John Watson is angry at Sherlock for a time. John had left Baker Street just after Sherlock had left _him,_ but in between moments of confusion and blame, he begins to slowly return home. And as John spends more hours at Baker Street, Sherlock is allowed to know, again, the laugh that had kept him feeling warm and loved and alive in the dark. So the hours John spends there turn into days, and the days turn into months, and the months turn into forever.

One evening, after the two of them had spent hours and hours sprawled out together on the floor, Sherlock thinks that John might want to kiss him. And when John brushes his fingers gingerly over Sherlock’s hair before touching his lips to his, he knows this—he knows this to be true.

 

  * _John Watson loves me. And I love John Watson more than I have ever loved another. I love him viscerally and inevitably; with the certainty of the sunrise; with both the ferocity and the tenderness of a lion and its prey. Since knowing him, life without him has ceased to be an option—There is no me without him, nor do I ever wish for there to be, and this fact is truer than eternity._



 

John sweats and he shivers, his body shifting in ungraceful rhythms over Sherlock’s as he breathes his name between open-mouthed kisses. On his lips are the three words that Sherlock has yearned to hear since before he even knew how to carry their weight.

Many years later, the two lay themselves upon a blanket in the garden of their Sussex cottage, fingers entwined, watching the bees pollinate the clovers and the sunflowers.

Sherlock whispers into John’s ear that he’s the love of his life. He is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He is his soulmate and his stability, his everything and his always, and he is, above all, his most exquisite truth.


	25. Go Forward, Do Not Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is caught in a vicious battle within himself the whole time they walk the haunted house. He almost wants to laugh; Sherlock Holmes, afraid of something, afraid and clinging to John like he’s his only lifeline. It’s _funny._
> 
> He also wants to push him into that little alcove over there and grab him by the lapels of his coat and kiss him until he’s panting because _fuck_ he’s hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to FinAmour for the fabulous idea! I hope this comes at least a little bit close to what you wanted<3
> 
> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3

“Come on, Sherlock. It’ll be fun.”   
  
Sherlock raises his eyebrows to his hairline and stares down at John, lip curling with thinly veiled disgust. “John,” he says, in much the same way someone-who-isn’t-Sherlock might say “corpse” or “serial killer.”    
  
John rolls his eyes with more annoyance than he really feels and nudges Sherlock with his shoulder playfully where they stand side by side on the pavement. “Spoilsport,” he says.    
  
“Am not,” Sherlock snaps immediately.    
  
“Are too,” John rejoins with gusto, and John honestly thinks that Sherlock’s going to stamp his foot for a few seconds.    
  
It’s sometime near midnight on Halloween. They are somewhere between Baker Street and the pub John forced them to go to—because if Sherlock wasn’t going to dress up and hand candy out with him, than dammit, John was going to enjoy his evening somehow—and right before their eyes is the most overdone haunted house that John has ever seen. Flashing lights, decrepit facade, decapitated heads hanging from the porch, distant screams echoing from inside—the whole works.    
  
John is delighted.    
  
Sherlock is not.    
  
“It’s ridiculous, John,” says Sherlock, pulling his coat tight around himself. He resembles a large, pretty, stroppy vampire, skin glowing pale and luminescent under a flickering street light. “A trap designed to pull in overzealous tourists, children, and drunk people and enthrall them with its cheap, fake-looking gore. Why people think that walking around being jumped out at is fun, I have no idea. People waiting in the dark in horrible costumes and making noises—“   
  
“Oh my god,” John says. He can feel a grin stretching his face wide as he watches Sherlock flounder. “Oh. My. God. You’re scared.”    
  
Sherlock gapes at him, seemingly at a loss for words, and John’s grin grows. Sherlock is adorable. So adorable. “I am not,” Sherlock blusters finally. He waves one hand wildly in the direction of a group of teenagers stumbling out of the haunted house, laughing and clinging to one another. “They are scared. I am brave, John.”   
  
“Oh, sure you are,” John agrees jovially. He grabs Sherlock’s arm and begins tugging him toward the back of the line leading into the front door, and Sherlock stumbles along behind him. “When you’re being chased by a serial killer with a knife, or throwing yourself into real-life danger.” John stops walking as Sherlock wrenches his arm out of John’s grasp. He turns to face his friend. “But you’re a madman,” John continues in a softer tone. “And this? This terrifies you.”   
  
Sherlock stands still. They watch each other.    
  
John likes moments like these, as contentious as this one may be. Moments where their eyes meet, blue against tumultuous blue, and John can physically feel that tension that’s always existed between them cracking through the air like a live wire. Sherlock is especially beautiful tonight; his colour is high (whether from their argument, the crispness of the wind, or the leftover effects of the two pints he’d consumed, John doesn’t know) and his eyes are like glittering galaxies in this light. A million supernovas, splintering into shards...   
  
Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose. “I am not,” he says in a low voice, “afraid.”   
  
John tips his chin up. He grins a sideways grin. “Prove it.”    
  
Turning on his heel, Sherlock dashes into the house.    
  
His bravery lasts about two seconds; as soon as they cross the darkened threshold, the woman taking money leaps out at them from behind her booth, and Sherlock steps backwards into John.    
  
_ Oh god _ , John thinks.    
  
“Two of us,” he says, reaching around Sherlock to hand over his money. The woman waves them through a black curtain hung up behind her, and they are plunged into darkness.    
  
Well. Not total darkness. There are blacklights lining the floor of this hallway, bleeding into the thick artificial fog that hangs cloyingly in the air and giving off enough luminescence that they won’t trip and fall on their arses

“Go forward,” John says, smiling into the dark. “Do not stray.”

“Shut the hell up,” Sherlock pouts.

The hallway is long. On either side are rows of opened doorways, and, glancing in one as they pass slowly, John can see that they truly are pitch black in there.    
  
He smiles.    
  
“See?” He says to Sherlock, full voice. “Not so bad—“    
  
Far down the hallway, a shadowy mass runs on heavy feet from one room to the other, and instantly Sherlock is plastered against John’s side.    
  
This was the best idea John has  _ ever had _ .    
  
“I know it’s not so bad,” Sherlock says stiffly, but he doesn’t move away; he has one arm threaded through John’s, the other grasping John’s wrist tightly. His breath is loud in John’s ear.    
  
“Good,” says John, walking them down the hallway. “Very brave of you.”   
  
“John—“   
  
More movement, except this time it’s directly in front of them, and a maniacal chuckle accompanies the stampede. Hardly the scariest thing John’s ever seen, but Sherlock...   
  
John looks at him, a tiny, tiny bit concerned now. Some of his concern must show in his face, for Sherlock jerks away from John and practically runs to the end of the hallway.    
  
“Come,” he says imperiously, refusing to look at John. “I haven’t got all night.”   
  
“Alright, alright,” John says placatingly, joining Sherlock at the door of the next room. He rests a hand on the knob, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Ready?”    
  
Sherlock swallows, nodding stiffly.    
  
John pushes open the door and a chorus of blood-curdling screams assaults his ears. There’s a group of people already in this room, hanging onto each other as they shriek, and John and Sherlock push past them in order to see what’s going on. 

Nothing. The room is empty. Blacklights, bare walls resembling a ramshackle asylum, darkness, darkness—

A trap door releases from the ceiling, and a body on a rope swings down, dangling over their heads as an automated wail of pain reverberates throughout the room. The corpse’s rubber face is purple and stretched into a mask of pain, limbs stiff. One of its hands is falling off.

It’s corny. Completely cheesy.

Sherlock folds himself into John like he’s just been threatened with a gun.

John’s arm comes up automatically to hold his friend, pulling him close and allowing Sherlock to bury his face in the side of John’s neck. Sherlock lets out a tiny, belated whimper.

“Hey, Sherlock, it’s ok,” John says, trying to sound soothing without being condescending, because he knows how Sherlock loathes being talked down to. “It’s just a dummy,” he continues, even as the leave the room and venture into the next one.

“I know it’s just a dummy,” Sherlock says, but there’s absolutely no bite to his tone whatsoever; he barely even succeeds at sounding petulant. He doesn’t remove himself from John’s side, and John presses a quick, undetectable kiss to his mop of soft curls.

In fact, Sherlock doesn’t let go of John throughout the whole house. He clings as they wade through a room of moaning, lurching zombies, he snuggles closer at the sound of a revving chainsaw (in a house? Really?), he practically melds himself to John’s torso while they traverse the pitch-black maze, and screams outright when someone grabs at the hem of his coat and tugs.

“Hands off!” John calls out into the dark, pulling Sherlock more firmly against him. “Leave him alone.”

“Just doing my job, mate,” comes an affronted voice, and Sherlock is quickly released.

“Well do it to someone else,” Sherlock says, voice quivering a little bit. He sounds embarrassed and makes to put space between him and John, but John’s not having any of that. Sherlock is right where John wants him.

John slides his arm around Sherlock’s waist under his coat, resting his hand in the dip right at the small of Sherlock’s back. It’s damp with sweat. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, and he has no idea if the man notices this time or not. 

He also doesn’t care.

John is caught in a vicious battle within himself the whole time they walk the haunted house. He almost wants to laugh; Sherlock Holmes,  _ afraid of something,  _ afraid and clinging to John like he’s his only lifeline. It’s  _ funny. _

He also wants to push him into that little alcove over there and grab him by the lapels of his coat and kiss him until he’s panting because  _ fuck  _ he’s hot.

So instead, John just holds on tight.

The last stop of the attraction involves a nifty little train car thingy that John frankly isn’t paying attention to.

Because Sherlock is like a furnace plastered up against him, radiating heat into the very marrow of John’s bones. He smells so good. Like rain, and smoke, and a little bit like sweat; the residual scents of London that always seem to drift around his person, but also something uniquely  _ Sherlock  _ that John can’t quite put his finger on; something that sparks a peculiar surge of affection see in John’s chest, and absolutely blinds him to anything that’s going on around him save for the feeling of Sherlock in his arms.

Before John quiet knows what’s happened, they’re leaving the haunted house to a cacophony of tinny Halloween film music playing from overhead speakers in the background. Sherlock is still holding onto him, though, and that’s good. John curls his fingers tight into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, because Sherlock being any farther away from John than he is right now would be  _ bad  _ and—

It’s like Sherlock’s some sort of nocturnal creature only comfortable with closeness when no one can see, John thinks. He’s detached from John the second his foot hits the pavement outside the door, vaulting yards away and shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat, ears to his shoulders before John can do so much as protest. John feels immediately and shockingly cold.

Sherlock sets off down the street, wading through the crowds of costumed people without even a glance to make sure John is following along.

Of course John is following along.

He trots to catch up with Sherlock, bumping him gently with his elbow and grinning up at him.

“Scary, huh?” he asks conversationally. The tips of Sherlock’s ears are pink. All John wants is to hold him again. 

Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight, pale line, and does not answer John. He turns, taking a shortcut through a dimly lit alley that runs behind Baker Street, and stomps a little louder than he usually would. A sure sign that he’s upset.

He wasn’t upset when John was holding him.

Well. Not  _ as _ upset.

Just scared.

Not of John, though.

John lets Sherlock gain a bit of ground, lingering a few paces behind him. The alley is dim, lit sporadically by sickly yellow lights shining out over back stoops, and John creeps from shadow to shadow along behind Sherlock. He waits until Sherlock passes under one of those yellowish pools of light; and then he jumps forward, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders, and  yells “ _ BOO!” _

Sherlock screams.

He whirls around on his heel, his eyes enormous in his pale face, hands clasped over his heart like he’s trying to keep it in his chest—and  _ keeps screaming _ . Even though he can see John right there in front of him, even though John is laughing so hard he can barely breathe, even though Sherlock has crumpled forward into John and wrapped himself up in John’s arms and gripped big fistfulls of John’s jumper in his trembling hands.

“Sherlock,” John gasps through his giggles, resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder blades and pulling him in closer. “Sherlock  _ shut up, _ it was just me—Sherlock  _ seriously.” _

“ _ John, _ ” Sherlock cries, accusatory and terrified and a bit hysterical, although at a normal volume now. He’s shaking like a leaf.

“God, I’m sorry,” John whispers, laughter shaking his voice and making it louder than it should be when they’re out this late at night. “I’m sorry,” he repeats as Sherlock rests his temple against John’s, panting heavily. John watches the pulse leap at a dangerous speed in Sherlock’s neck, and thinks of his garnet, life-giving blood thrumming through that dancing vein, thinks of that vein connecting to Sherlock’s beating, beautiful heart. He kisses that pulse, lips ghosting over the hot skin of Sherlock’s neck, as he giggles and apologizes and gasps.

“‘S ok,” Sherlock breathes. His voice is nothing more than a rasp, barely intelligible. John feels it vibrating against his mouth where it’s resting on Sherlock’s throat, and god, that feels good,  _ yes.  _ It. Does. His fingers dig into John’s ribs when John parts his lips a little bit into the kiss, and his breath catches. “I for-forgive you.”

“Good, that’s good,” John babbles, entirely dismissive of the whole conversation now that Sherlock appears to be having great difficulty standing up on his own and it’s  _ all due to John’s lips. _

John brushes the tip of his nose against the harsh line of Sherlock’s jaw; slow, sloooooow. Sherlock shivers against him, and that’s the most beautiful feeling in the world, so John rewards him with a long, open kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Sherlock’s head falls back and he  _ moans. _

“Oh my god,” John says, cradling Sherlock’s head in one hand and propping him up, meeting his heavy-lidded eyes with a shiver of his own. “Sherlock I’ve barely even touched you yet, love, and you’re about to shake apart.”

“So then touch me more,” Sherlock says, his voice low, his words slurred together as he struggles to get air into his lungs, struggles to keep from looking at John’s lips… and fails. “And  _ hurry.” _

“Oh god, yes,” John whispers, and he dives forward, taking Sherlock’s sweet, warm, plush mouth against his own.

Contrary to what Sherlock asked of him, John takes his time. He kisses Sherlock with soft, small, closemouthed kisses; he brushes his lips slowly back and forth over Sherlock’s, learning the feel of him, the taste and the scent and the overwhelming emotion of what they’re doing, a reservoir of longing built up between them for years leaking out bit by bit into the deliberacy of John’s actions.

Sherlock’s lips feel like satin, like velvet, like silk. Like all the best things in the world.

After a few moments, John parts his own lips and slides his open mouth against Sherlock’s, tongue flicking out and wetting Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock moans again, and suddenly, that carefully maintained reservoir breaks.

With a growl, John grabs Sherlock’s waist under his heavy coat and spins him around, walking him backwards until he comes up hard against the concrete wall behind him. His hand on the back of Sherlock’s head keeps him from slamming his skull into the wall, but still he makes a noise as John pins him there, a sound like all the air is being beaten out of him. He’s still shaking, delicious, full-bodied shivers that make John absolutely mad with want for this perfect man.

“John,” Sherlock gasps as John bites Sherlock’s lip gently, tugging it between his own teeth and then soothing the spot he bit with the tip of his tongue, teasing and biting and wetting and repeating. “John you  _ growled at me. _ ”

“Liked that, did you?” John murmurs. He presses closer, closer, as close as he can get, sliding one thigh between Sherlock’s legs and holding Sherlock up as he sags against John and the wall. He kisses him on each corner of his mouth, but Sherlock mews at him, grabbing the back of his neck with eager hands and yanking him down until their mouths are completely sealed together.

Sherlock’s mouth is soft, and dusky-warm; he presents himself to John like a gift that’s worth giving, surrendering with an absolute trust and abandon that sets John’s nerve endings on fire with every kiss, every touch. Sherlock is inexperienced but enthusiastic, and almost heartbreakingly earnest. John wants, at the same time, to fold him close and protect him, small, and secure, and to bring him home and see him stretched across his bed, arms above his head, heaving chest flushed, as John hovers above him, just looking…

John wants Sherlock. John wants Sherlock in every capacity that he can have him.

“You were terrified,” John whispers, and he doesn’t know why, but every word is better when said into Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth.

Sherlock pants against him, catching John’s lips in a kiss and then dragging his mouth down to John’s chin, then along the line of his jaw. “Just because you’re kissing me,” he pants, “does not mean that you are allowed to point out my shortcomings.”

John laughs, and moves his leg out from between Sherlock’s thighs, bracketing his waist with his own legs, instead. “Love,” he says, kneading at Sherlock’s scalp with the tips of his fingers, “I’ve never been more grateful for someone else’s fear in my entire life. God, Sherlock, I…” he trails off as Sherlock lifts his face slowly to meet John’s eyes. His lips are bruised red, swollen from kisses, and his pupils almost overtake his rises completely. John’s heart lurches in his chest. “I never wanted you to stop touching me.” He bends his head closer, lips drifting until they hover over Sherlock’s. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I never want you to stop touching me again.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock rasps. “I promise, John, I won’t.” He kisses John, holding him so tightly that John thinks they could almost form into one being.

And there is no more speaking out loud for a very, very long time.


	26. But If You Cannot See It, Is It Really There?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John.” Sherlock blinks; his eyes are wide and a startling shade of blue. “The concept of love is ridiculous, you know. I’ve never understood why humans so often make decisions based on a hormonal reaction that may or may not be real.” 
> 
> John watches Sherlock as the wind blows through his long strands of dark hair. “I can assure you,” John says. “Love is very, very real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by FinAmour. 
> 
> It's my first attempt at something remotely sci-fi-ish. Enjoy this weird little alien Sherlock AU :)
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to my friend [allsovacant](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/) for her birthday. In honor of her, I've decided to name the planet Sherlock is from "Mahalkita," which means "I love you" in Filipino. Happy birthday, love, and thank you for all of your support <3

John Watson is far, far away from home, but he finds he no longer misses it. In fact, on a night like tonight—a night with Sherlock, so breathtaking and wondrous and perfect—he’s forgotten how to miss anything at all.

They lie sprawled in a gigantic bed of lush, glowing flowers, drifting on a sparkling sea of lavender water. The flowers are singing to them, a melody that is brand new to John and yet somehow achingly familiar.

He and Sherlock don’t talk; they seldom do. Though Sherlock had taught himself perfect English the day he had met John, talking is something Mahalkitians find to be tiring, which is more than fine with John. The two of them lie on their backs, side-to-side, close enough to be touching, but they never do that, either. And John is also fine with that, as long as he is allowed to keep looking.

An infinite array of waterfalls cascades around them; as does the radiant light shining down from the three moons. And as John watches Sherlock, and Sherlock watches everything else at the same time, John can’t decide what’s more beautiful: his surroundings, or his otherworldly companion.

Less than six months ago, John had also been far, far away from this current state of contentedness. Upon joining the military, he’d missed London and Earth immediately, but in the weeks following the attack on his fleet’s vessel—which had sent them out of control and into the surface of a foreign planet—the hollow feeling in John’s chest had grown all-consuming.

Nobody else had survived the crash. And when John had woken up alone, cold, dark and wounded, he'd found himself ready to accept that his time, too, had come.

But within hours, a young native had discovered John by accident while out exploring the cliffs for evidence of Bombus Apidae. The native—a curious man with a fascination for the unknown—had taken John with him, returning to his quarters to conduct research.

The native had soon, however, discovered John to simply be a human being from the planet Earth. And given the similar flora and fauna on his own planet of Mahalkita, their make-up is not so dissimilar. Mahalkitians and humans are even alike in appearance, though the former tend to have sharper, more disassembled features.

Although the native had quickly grown bored with his research, due to the Mahalkitian’s high temporal development, he had been able to nurse John back to health in nearly the blink of an eye.

When John had come to, and learned what had happened and where he was and _why_ , he had at first been exasperated and annoyed.

“I nearly died,” he’d said to the native. “I lost everyone and everything who meant something, and yet you see me as nothing more than an experiment.”

“You are free to go,” the native had told him. “I do not wish to hold you prisoner. But although you are of no use to me scientifically, I find you fascinating, and I could also use a flatmate.”

John, a stubborn man, even in his state, had thought the native to be completely mad, and had left his quarters immediately. But upon leaving, his surroundings had been harsh and unwelcoming and unsafe to John’s human body, and he’d quickly found himself near the brink of death once more.

The native had unfathomably found him again, and had saved him again, and this time, John had agreed to stay. 

“Only until I can return home,” had been John’s one and only caveat.

“Of course,” the native had acknowledged. “Only until you can return home.”

And that’s how John, from planet Earth, and Sherlock, from planet Mahalkita, had ended up living together.

Though the two of them had many, many differences, they had quickly become friends; brought together, at first, by their loneliness and isolation.

But it had soon become more than that—the two of them had also shared a very similar sense of adventure, along with a desperate need for fulfillment. And they had quickly discovered how natural it felt to derive that fulfillment from one another. 

Sherlock had known all of the fascinating places in Mahalkita to show John; and John had been more than willing to go on every risky adventure Sherlock had proposed. Especially if it meant exploring a lush and beautiful paradise, with endless sights and smells and what had come to be life-altering and thrilling experiences.

John had eventually found himself falling in love with the planet Mahalkita.

Soon after, he’d found himself falling in love with Sherlock, as well.

And now, on this night—this perfect night—he feels that love intensely, enveloped in every sight and sound and smell around him.

After lying next to Sherlock for what may have been hours—John can never really tell—Sherlock finally speaks to him.

“John,” he says.

“Yes?”

“I’ve at last figured out a way to communicate with your home planet. You may return to Earth, if you’d like.”

John’s heart leaps in his chest.  _Earth. Home._

“You—You have?” John asks. His voice is raspy from disuse or from emotion; he can’t really tell which one.

“It wasn’t quite as simple as I’d have liked,” Sherlock admits. “I’ve been trying to make contact since the day I found you. But the signals travel slowly, and it wasn’t until today that I was finally successful.”

John doesn’t move. He can’t. The weight of what Sherlock is telling him is far too heavy at the moment. “You’ve been trying to find a way for me to return home since the beginning?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and he shifts his body, allowing himself to turn on his side to face John. “Isn’t that what you want?” he asks, splaying his fingers underneath his own head and settling his cheek onto his hands.

John had thought that’s what he’d wanted. And not long ago, the answer would have unequivocally been _yes._ Returning to London had been the most important thing in his life.

But now, the most important thing in his life is _Sherlock._

John shifts his body too, facing Sherlock, and the light from the moons settles on Sherlock’s features like a soft blanket. “No,” he says simply. “I don’t want that.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow with confusion as he gazes back at John. “Why not?”

And although Sherlock is the smartest and wisest being John has ever encountered, he can't help but marvel over how young and utterly clueless he suddenly seems. “You aren’t there,” he replies.

Sherlock’s expression is blank. “What difference does that make?” he asks. “Why would you avoid going home simply because I’m not there?”

“Because.” John’s voice is sure and unwavering. “When you love someone, you’d give up practically anything for the chance to be with them.”

“John.” Sherlock blinks; his eyes are wide and a startling shade of blue. “The concept of love is ridiculous, you know. I’ve never understood why humans so often make decisions based on a hormonal reaction that may or may not be real.” 

John watches Sherlock as the wind blows through his long strands of dark hair. “I can assure you,” John says. “Love is very, very real.”

Sherlock swallows, his face softening, and the love John feels for him only swells. “So you insist,” he says. “But if you cannot see it, is it really there?”

John carefully brings his fingers to meet the curls hanging from Sherlock's head, and is pleased when Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “Sherlock,” he says evenly. “The wind that blows through the air at this moment—you and I cannot see it. Does that mean it doesn’t exist?” 

Sherlock goes quiet; his eyelids heavy with the sensation of John’s fingers brushing at his scalp. “The wind can be seen in the branches of the trees,” he drawls. “And in the dust that settles around us.”

John uses his thumb to trace soft circles around Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock’s head lulls backwards and forwards at the touch. “In a similar manner,” John states, “although love isn’t something you can physically see, the effects of it can be crystal clear.”

Sherlock’s bright blue eyes regain focus, a tiny glimmer of understanding flashing through them.

John pulls his hand away from Sherlock, but he moves his body closer, maintaining their eye contact. Sherlock’s breath quickens.

“Just now,” John says with a grin. “I moved the tiniest bit closer to you, and even though I’m not touching you anymore, you surely felt it.”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Yes. I felt it. My heartbeat became more rapid, as did yours.”

John slides his body even closer, aligning it with Sherlock’s. He settles one hand at the dip of Sherlock’s waist as he continues to pillow his own face with the other.

Sherlock squirms, but his expression remains unchanged. Bare, vulnerable, curious. “How about kissing?” he asks.

John can feel himself flushing at the question. He manages to regulate his breathing, though he can sense Sherlock’s short, hot puffs of breath moving closer and closer.

“Yes,” John says with a small nod. “Kissing is another way that love can be seen or felt. If not emotionally or mentally, then at least physically.”

Sherlock licks his own lips as his eyes fall onto John’s. “Show me,” he breathes, his lips now hovering directly over John’s. “I want to know what your love feels like.”

John shivers, his eyes falling closed as he slots their lips together. It’s a timid, simple press of mouth onto mouth, and yet Sherlock instantly reacts—his hands clutching onto the material of John’s shirt. He tugs at it fiercely, his body becoming boneless beneath John’s hand. His lips are warm against John’s, which John finds surprising; and they are soft as velvet, which John could have easily predicted.

John loves him. And he pours as much love into the kiss as he possibly can before he slowly pulls away.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock gasps, his face scarlet, his pupils black. “Oh my God, John. That was—I could _feel_ it. Not just on my lips; I felt it in my chest and in my lungs and in my stomach, from my head to my toes.”

John grins, enamoured and love-drunk and smitten by his beautiful friend’s reaction. “Pretty incredible, yeah?” he asks, though words don’t really come close to conveying the depth of it.

Sherlock’s eyes come back into focus, and he looks at John expectantly, tugging again at the fabric of John’s sleeve. “More.”

John dips his head obediently, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s, this time with a tad more force and desperation. Sherlock adjusts his body to close the space between them, sighing and shivering as their bodies make full contact.

John’s mouth falls open, and Sherlock follows suit; taking John’s lip into his mouth pleadingly. But John intends to take his time with Sherlock—as he knows the sensation is new, and may be overwhelming. Besides, they’ve got all the time in this new world.

John continues to kiss him, slow and meaningful, as Sherlock makes small and breathless sounds, digging his nails into John’s skin as he kisses him back. It’s all timid and exploratory and delicious. But John can feel when it becomes too much for Sherlock; he begins to arch his body against John’s, his nails nearly breaking John's skin, his moans becoming more like whimpers.

John pulls away again.

Sherlock trembles, and John immediately wraps his arms around him tightly, pressing his chin into the top of his head. “I’ve got you,” he whispers into the soft curls there. “It’s alright.”

Sherlock makes a pleased sound into John’s neck. “I know,” he says as he kisses John’s throat delicately. “I can feel that, too.”

John smiles, his heart full, and he dusts a barely-there kiss onto Sherlock’s head.

“But if you’re going to stay here, John,” Sherlock says lazily as he folds himself into him, “You’re never allowed to stop kissing me like that.”

John laughs. “Of course,” he says. “I don’t know how this is all going to work, exactly. Where I’ll fit in here, or how I’ll make a life. But as long as I’ve got you, and we’re together, that’s one thing I can absolutely promise.”

“Very well, then,” Sherlock says happily. “I’ll allow you to stay.”

“Perfect,” John replies. “And I’m going to continue showing you, in countless ways, how real my love for you is.”

Sherlock sighs again; this time, contentedly. “And I’m going to learn to do the same, John. For you.”

So, on this perfect night, as they lie upon a bed of singing flowers, they begin their shared life together. Surrounded by moonlight and waterfalls, and a love that cannot be seen, but can be felt more deeply than the sparkling, lavender sea.


	27. Remember. You Have to Remember.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John.
> 
> I would like to remind you once again of how dangerous Morstan is. Remember. You have to remember. 
> 
> Do not get caught up in the lies she tells you, and do not believe her when she says that she wants to get to know you. She is only interested in becoming closer to you so that she may acquire more information about me. 
> 
> And above all, John. Do not fall in love with her.
> 
> -Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter co-written by both FinAmour and unicornpoe!
> 
> The premise: Reichenbach happens, but John is actually in on it the entire time. These are the letters the two write to one another as they work together to bring down every part of Moriarty’s network, including the dangerous Mary Morstan.

John,

It is extremely important that you do not attempt to figure out my location.

I will send a member of my network to you with coordinates on where to drop off each letter, and one of my brother’s men will ensure it gets to me.

I know you, and I know that you will be hesitant in following these commands, but I need you to understand that if you don’t, you’ll be putting many lives in danger.

Mycroft and I have located the target, Morstan, in London, and we are keeping a close eye on her. If we are to follow our plan, we will slowly draw her out and keep her close until I am able to return to London to capture her and get the information I need from her.

Do not attempt to bring her to justice yourself. If she dies before I return, we will be losing very important information. And she will not give the information to anyone other than me.

-SH

  
***

 

Sherlock,

You’re completely mad. You are completely, utterly mad.

It sort of feels like nothing’s real right now, you know? Hasn’t since the moment you told me what you were going to do. With Moriarty, and the fall, and leaving me behind. 

I can’t believe I went along with that. I can’t believe I’m STILL going along with it. But then again, I’ve always gone along with your madcap schemes, haven’t I?

This one is different, though. I’ve always been able to make sure you’re in one piece, after. I’m… I honestly wasn’t completely convinced you were until I got your letter this morning, and even now I’m not one hundred percent positive it’s really you. I’d like to be able to check in on you.

I know you probably hate reading this stuff, because “sentiment,” as you always say, but, well. Chalk it up to the fact that I AM your doctor.

I’ll have you know that the only reason I haven’t made Mycroft tell me where you are is because I trust you, Sherlock, and I trust that you’ll use that brilliant brain to fix things and come back soon. If I trusted you even a tiny bit less, I would never have let you step off of that roof before my eyes.

Anyway. Hurry up.

John.

  
***

John.

I find it a bit alarming that you are so emotional over this task, and I am going to have to ask you to try to remain collected. Sentiment does neither of us any favours in this situation. I need your mind to be clear, John, and free of anything that may impede your logic. I need to know that I can trust you to make the best possible decisions, because your life is at stake.

Morstan is even more dangerous than we had originally thought. Promise me that you will maintain a level head. Otherwise, this may all be for nothing.

I’ve learned that Morstan is attempting to acquire an illegitimate nursing licence. John, I fear that she is going to be coming after you.

-SH

  
***

Sherlock,

Knew you’d say that.

Your life is at stake too, you idiot. Don’t be daft, Sherlock, I’m not the one swanning about in the middle of nowhere and chasing consulting criminals across the globe. I can handle one crazy nurse.

I’m almost offended that you worry so much, but I worry too, so I’ll let it slide.

John.

  
***

John.

By the time you receive this letter, you will have become aware that Morstan is seeking employment at your clinic. In fact, I fear that she may already be working there.

The thought of Moriarty’s right hand, one of the world’s most dangerous assassins, in your place of work for hours each day has me gravely concerned.

It is vital that you do everything in your power to lead her on, and to help her believe that I am dead. She has made the choice to come after you because she knows that you are the closest person to me, and she will do anything and everything to get as much information about me as possible.

John, use your best judgement.

-SH

  
***

Sherlock,

Hey. Please try not to worry about me, ok? Please. I’ll be alright, Sherlock. I’m here in our city with your brother and Lestrade watching over my every move. Even if I was TRYING to be murdered by Morstan I don’t think she’d manage to off me.

Just don’t let thoughts of me distract you. I might joke in these letters, but it’s just to lighten the mood, to maybe make you crack a smile. I’m doing everything within my power to bring you home faster, Sherlock, and I’m not going to be stupid and risk myself in the process.

I’m gravely concerned about YOU, and I was concerned first. Only one of us is allowed to fall apart at a time, and it’s my turn. I’ll let you know when I’m done.

I’m ok. I promise.

John.

  
***

John.

I’m writing to let you know that I will be going on an intensive hunt for one of the members of Moriarty’s network, and I may be unavailable to write to you for some time.

Meanwhile, give Morstan anything she asks for. Just keep her, and yourself, alive until I’m back.

-Sherlock

 

***

Sherlock,

You probably won’t get this, but I’m writing you anyway in the hopes that maybe you do before you have to leave.

Sherlock Holmes. Listen to me. Be. Careful.

Please. I know I’ve said it a million times and you aren’t any more likely to listen to me now than you ever have before, but just make sure you think things through. Just… try not to be an idiot. Try not to be the kind of idiot that gets himself killed, anyway.

On a lighter note:

Well. I say lighter.

Anyway. Mary is here, at the clinic. You’d hate her. Well, either hate her or love her, I can’t tell. She’s charming and pretty and frankly vile. A nice little mystery to me, although most definitely not to you. I can easily see how she’s a world-famous killer. It suits her.

John.  

***

John,

I realise that it has been several weeks since my last letter, but my mission was a success. I hope that this one finds you alive and well. Mycroft has not informed me otherwise, so I presume you are.

He has also informed me that you and Morstan have been spending quite some time together, and I want to thank you for going so far beyond the call of duty to ensure that she is completely fooled.

What kinds of things is she asking about me? Does she seem to be clearly convinced that I am dead?

And John--I have found that when I was unable to depend on receiving your letters, as few and far between as they might be, my overall disposition become somewhat more gloomy.

I suppose that what I am trying to say, John, is that I look forward to hearing from you soon.

-Sherlock

  
***

Sherlock,

I miss you too.

I’m very glad that your mission was a success. How are YOU? I hope you’re well. I’m going to try to believe that you’re well. It’s better for my mental health.

Yes. Mary seems absolutely convinced that you’re dead. We don’t talk about you much, really, which is… surprising. Although when we do, she seems very dedicated to comforting me. That is unsettling, to say the least.

I’m sorry you’re feeling gloomy, Sherlock. Hopefully this cheered you up? I know that your letter made ME smile.

Write back soon,

John.  

***

John.

Please remember that Morstan is a legitimate sociopath, and that means she is a master manipulator. Just because she seems to believe what you tell her, that doesn’t mean she absolutely does.

I would like to remind you once again of how dangerous she is. Remember. You have to remember. Do not get caught up in the lies she tells you, and do not believe her when she says that she wants to get to know _you._ She is only interested in becoming closer to you so that she may acquire more information about _me._ This is important information to Moriarty’s network regardless of whether or not I’m dead.

And above all, John. Do not fall in love with her.

-Sherlock

***

Sherlock,

Excuse me? First of all, Sherlock, plenty of people want to get to know me because of me and not because of my connection to YOU. I’m an interesting guy. Watch your mouth.

Secondly, I cannot believe you even think you have to caution me against falling in love with her. Sherlock. God. I don’t even know what to write right now.

That was a very rude letter you just sent me. I don’t appreciate it.

John.

 

***

John.

I believe we have reached the point at which sentiment and emotion have clouded your judgement.

Please call off the assignment and break things off with Mary. I will have Mycroft see to it that you are safe.

We have gathered enough information about her for this to be considered a partial success, and it shouldn’t be long before I return.

Until then, I ask you to maintain the illusion of my death to all who ask.

Sincerely,

Sherlock

  
***

Sherlock,

What’s gotten into you? Are you ok? I’m safe, and I’m not letting “emotion cloud my judgement.” I’m doing what you asked me to do, which is to gather information on Morstan and detain her until you can get home to me. I don’t understand why you’re so upset.

I’m glad to hear you’re coming home soon, though.

John.

***

Sherlock,

It’s been about a month since my last letter and I haven’t gotten a response back from you yet. Maybe mine got lost in the post? Or yours, maybe. Anyway, I just really hope that you’re alright. I still don’t know where you are, but it’s getting cold here, so I can’t help but think of you wherever you are without your beloved dressing gown or your coat.

They gave me your coat when you died, you know. It’s hung in my closet.

Write back soon, okay? Things aren’t any good without you here, and I’m getting worried. More worried than usual. Just… let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you, and I will. I’ll do anything.

I miss you.

John.

***

Sherlock,

I’m going to kill your brother. I’m going to murder him, Sherlock, don’t think that I won’t, if he doesn’t tell me where you are.

I haven’t spoken to you in three and half months. Not a word. Not a letter, not anything. I can’t sleep, I’m so caught up in thinking about you. I know in my bones that you aren’t okay; I can tell. It goes against everything I’ve ever known not to be right there by your side when you need me, and I KNOW that you need me.

Sherlock. Please don’t be dead. You have to come back. To me.

Yours,

John.

***

Sherlock,

I miss you. I miss you so much that I forget to breathe, sometimes.

Mycroft has told me what he knows. That you’re in an underground Serbian prison somewhere, but the location is undetermined. Which means that I don’t even know if you’re alive, but I am damn well trying to come find you. And Mycroft won’t let me. Every time I try to leave my flat one of his men is there, stopping me. I beat up four of them before finally Mycroft came to talk to me, and the only reason I didn’t break his fucking nose is because there’s nothing I can do to get you home any faster.

God. I’d do anything if I thought it meant I could have you safe and sound again.

You’re so brave. You’re braver than I’ve ever been, braver than I’ll ever be. I told you, a long time ago, that only one of us is allowed to fall apart at a time: it’s your turn now. It’s your turn now, and forever, and always. I will hold you, and let you fall apart, and then I’ll put you back together again just like I’ve been longing to do since I saw you die.

I don’t know what I’m going to do until I see you again. I can’t stop thinking about you, which isn’t new. But I have never, not once in my life, been this terrified, Sherlock.

I am terrified for you.

Please, come home soon. I don’t care if you’ve completed your mission. I don’t care if you’ve gotten rid of Moriarty’s network, or accomplished one single thing since the last time I saw you. You are infinitely more than your work; you are everything.

I’m waiting for you. I would wait for you forever, I think.

I hope it doesn’t take that long.

Yours,

John.

  
***

John.

Mycroft has just located my whereabouts, and he has succeeded in pulling me from the members of the network who had been keeping me captive.

They were the last of the network, other than Morstan. They are dead now.

Morstan will not be happy once she hears the news. She needs to be placated, John. She needs to be thrown off of her tracks.

John. I need you to propose to Mary Morstan. I cannot explain it fully right now, but I promise it will all make sense eventually.

I have limited time in which to write this before I board a plane back to London. And I would prefer to spend the time writing other things.  

John, I miss you more than any words can convey. I thought of you every single day while imprisoned, and I wished more than anything that I would be able to get out of there, if only to let you know how sorry I am. Sorry for putting you through hell the last few years, sorry for being obtuse and an idiot and for thinking I know what’s best for your life.

I will spend as much time as I need to make it up to you; but for now, the mission isn’t over. We must bring Mary Morstan down, and we must do it together. We must maintain the illusion.

John, I cannot do this without you. 

I will soon be back. Mycroft will send you further instructions on where to meet me, and what the next steps should be. I believe he will also provide a ring for you to give her.

Go and see Mrs. Hudson and scope out Baker Street to ensure it’s ready for my return.

John. I… I look forward to seeing you, finally, after all these months.

Yours,  
Sherlock

***

Sherlock,

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I can’t believe I’m going along with this. But I always go along with your madcap schemes, don’t I?

Everything I do from here on out is for you, do you understand that? Every single thing. I love you. I miss you like a part of me is gone. I hate this idea, and all I want to do is take you in my arms and never let you go again, but I TRUST you, Sherlock. And so I’ll do it. I’ll propose to her.

For you.

Someday, you and I will get our chance, Sherlock. I promise you. I’ll make that happen.

I can’t wait to see your face.

Love,

John.

  
***

John.

I love you. And I promise our time will come. But for now, we wait.

As a wise man once said: I would wait for you forever, I think. I hope it doesn’t take that long.

Yours always,

Sherlock


	28. I Felt It. You Know What I Mean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Sherlock takes this newfound realisation, and the courage and feeling of liberation he gets from it, and he drifts closer to John deliberately. Boldly, he moves his hand to John’s waist and he lets it settle there; he dips his head down and lets his lips hover an inch above John’s ear.
> 
> “Doctor, hm?” he croons. “And military. Must have seen a lot of dead bodies in your lifetime, John.”
> 
> John huffs a small laugh, but remains somewhat rigid. His hands don’t come up to touch any part of Sherlock, as much as Sherlock wants them to. “Yes,” John says, voice steady. “Far too many.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was co-written by unicornpoe and FinAmour <3<3
> 
> Unbeta’ed, so sorry for the mistakes xbsbsbssbs and thanks for reading!!

Sherlock pauses for half a second outside of his destination; he looks his reflection up and down in the glass door, and barely restrains a roll of his eyes.

God. He’s really beginning to question whether or not this case is even worth it.

Besides, he’s cold. He misses his trusty Belstaff and his scarf. He’s been forced to trade them in for a flashy fishnet top (if one can even call it that) that stretches across his torso tightly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Linen trousers, the colour of fresh snow, are gathered snugly about his ankles and waist, but sort of... _flowing_ elsewhere.

He looks utterly ridiculous.

The things he is willing to do in order to track down serial killers for the Yard are at times astounding even to him, but as he stares at his reflection, he starts to believe that Lestrade may be asking too much of him this time around.

But he has to _fit the role_ , so to speak—and the serial killer that has been making their rounds recently at nearby singles mixers seems to have a type. 

The moment Sherlock peers through the doors into the crowded, brightly-lit room, his heart sinks. It’s buzzing with hordes of people laughing and talking and wearing too much makeup and trying too hard. Sherlock is completely positive that he already hates every single one of them, and there’s nothing he can _do about it._

Nothing but focus on the case. Yes. Hopefully that will distract him enough that he doesn’t stab himself with a fork before the evening is through.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, plasters a vapid smile on his face, and throws open the doors.

He adjusts his purposeful gait to a leisurely stroll; lets his shoulders lose a bit of their stiffness, lets his spine curl elegantly. He scans the room with wide, slow-blinking eyes, trying to appear eager and excited and open but not let on that he’s internally dying.

Someone knocks into him from behind and he turns with grace. That, at least, isn’t a show.

“Oh, sorry,” says the woman behind him. She’s got a drink in her hand; something pink and fruity that smells good.

Sherlock adjusts the corners of his smile until it’s spread across his face in a long, effortless curve. “Oh, that’s ok, Sweetheart,” he purrs, and she immediately looks dazzled.

Sherlock is lucky he’s a brilliant actor, because he wants to throw up in his mouth a little bit.

The serial killer’s type: tall, dark-haired, and handsome in an outright and utterly vapid way. Overly flirtatious and friendly and giggly and so many other things Sherlock _isn’t,_ but for tonight, he’s going to have to bite the bullet and pretend to be, for the sake of catching a killer.

He’s not Sherlock Holmes right now. He is a target. And everyone else is a suspect.

And he’s already made an impression. As he saunters around the room, he notices the way people’s eyes follow him. He meets each and every one of their stares with a flirtatious smile or a wink. He reminds himself that he’s trying to draw out someone who’d like to kill him, and naturally, that makes him feel _so_ much better.

Usually, his own beauty is not something he notices; he’s aware that he’s attractive, in a strange, unsettling way that people usually don’t consider. But now, every person who looks at him is someone that he has to study _back._

For instance, there’s a nondescript man in the corner who is positively _gaping_ at Sherlock right now, and—

Oh. Well. He doesn’t look interested at _all._ He actually seems vaguely annoyed.

That’s… unexpected.

Sherlock wonders, at first, if this man could be his suspect, but he finds it rather unlikely. The killer is a predator, and this man is making no effort to chase anyone—besides, based on the evidence, the killer is right-handed, and over six feet tall, two things this man is not.

The man is really rather beautiful, Sherlock notices. Small, and dressed like he wants to blend in, but deceptively so. There’s something about him that draws Sherlock’s eye, makes him look, makes him _keep_ looking. It could be the brilliant blue of his irises, clear from all the way across the room; or the strength of his shoulders, almost hidden under an awful jumper.

Somehow, he’s fascinating. It makes no sense at all.

Then the man turns away, disappearing into the crowd; and before Sherlock has quite got his bearings back, he’s being whisked over to converse with a man in a cheap suit who is so boring Sherlock doesn’t hear a word he’s saying.

He pretends to hear him anyway, smiling and laughing and nodding at everything he says.

Sherlock talks to a woman who owns seven cats. He pretends to be a cat person.

Sherlock talks to a man with nine children. He swallows his urge to yell at him to get a damned vasectomy.

Sherlock talks to people who are lawyers, bankers, actors, students. He talks to chefs, to construction workers, to ballet dancers.

He hates all of them.

He tries his best to narrow them all down to a handful of suspects—but he’s finding himself infuriatingly distracted by the fact that he’s _not_ talking to the beautiful man with pretty blue eyes and the ugly jumper.

But then. He bumps into _him_ , too. Hard. So hard, he spills his drink all over the man’s terrible jumper, staining the bland oatmeal threads horribly.

“Hey!” the man grumbles in annoyance, stumbling backward. He grabs a napkin from the table next to them and begins mopping at his chest in a way Sherlock knows is futile. “Mind watching where you’re going?”

The smile that takes over Sherlock’s face is entirely real. Charming. This man is charming. Sherlock has no idea why. He looks down, reads the man’s name tag.

_John Watson._

Strong. To match the rest of him.

Sherlock wracks his brain for a panicked second, trying to remember what his _own_ name tag says. “Cedric Orlando,” he finally says with a winning smile. “Sorry about your jumper,” he laughs. It’s a forced, high, vibrant laugh; not his best fake laugh, by any means. To make up for it, he leans in close to John and touches the jumper with the tips of his fingers.

It’s soft.

John puts on a smile that’s just as inauthentic as Sherlock’s, only much more courteous and a lot less flirtatious. He nods. “Captain Doctor John Watson.”

John’s eyes refuse to meet Sherlock’s; his gaze hovers somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s right shoulder. Sherlock takes this opportunity to observe him with more intent.

Military veteran. Doctor. Interested in both women and men. Hasn’t been in a serious relationship since the military, and he really, really does not want to be here. It’s likely that he had been forced to attend by a pushy, well-intentioned family member. A brother, perhaps?

Sherlock wants, more than anything, to rattle off his deductions. He has a feeling they would impress John. Or at the very least get John to look at him, which would be just as good. But he can’t do that, not now, and this is a fact that he suddenly despises even more than the stupid white trousers he’s wearing.

Instead, Sherlock will rely on another tool at his disposal: his dashing good looks.

He presses his palm flat against John’s jumper, allowing it to wander down until he catches the hem of John’s sleeve with his long fingers.

John finally looks at him then, his expression flashing with something… different. Something that doesn’t look like annoyance. Something that Sherlock can’t read.

Sherlock bats his eyelashes dramatically and runs the fingers of his other hand through his curls, tousling them casually. “So,” he breathes as he leans in closer, gazing down at John seductively from under his dark lashes. “What exactly did you come here to find, Captain?”

John arches a critical eyebrow at him, a half-smile forming on his lips. It actually seems genuine, and Sherlock preens. “Sorry, erm. Where have my manners gone? Cedric, was it?”

Sherlock has no idea. Perhaps John doesn’t have manners at all, but it doesn’t matter; Sherlock feels drawn to him in a way that he doesn’t quite understand, feels pulled to him with a force that’s magnetic. And he suddenly realises how oddly safe he feels behind this false identity, as ridiculous as it is. Invincible. He’s got nothing to fear. He can stand here talking to John, and say or do something absolutely stupid, and it won’t matter in the end. Because it isn’t actually _him_ doing it.

So Sherlock takes this newfound realisation, and the courage and feeling of liberation he gets from it, and he drifts closer to John deliberately. Boldly, he moves his hand to John’s waist and he lets it settle there; he dips his head down and lets his lips hover an inch above John’s ear.

“Doctor, hm?” he croons. “And _military._ Must have seen a lot of dead bodies in your lifetime, John.”

John huffs a small laugh, but remains somewhat rigid. His hands don’t come up to touch any part of Sherlock, as much as Sherlock wants them to. “Yes,” John says, voice steady. “Far too many.”

“Something tells me you love adventure,” Sherlock murmurs. He turns his head a fraction of an inch, and his smooth curls brush John’s face lightly. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees an unwilling smile pull at John’s lips.

“I suppose you could say that,” John responds steadily. He doesn’t make any effort to move closer, but he doesn’t move away. It counts. “There’s just something addicting about it.” He pauses and inhales slowly. “Putting your life on the line, running into dangerous situations, coming out on the other end with a heart pumping your body full of adrenaline. I _felt_ it. You know what I mean? Nothing compares.”

Sherlock swallows. This man already knows the most direct way to his heart.

And _Sherlock_ knows that he’s supposed to be solving a case right now. He really, truly does. But there’s just something about the man in front of him. Something that has Sherlock weak in the knees, something that has him completely senseless, something compelling him to do things he would never ordinarily do.

He brushes his cheek against John’s. Feels the warm softness of John’s skin against his own, and continues to whisper into his ear. “I know you don’t want to be here,” he breathes. His lips skim John’s ear. “Neither do I. So what do you say we take off together and do something else that gets our hearts pumping?”

Sherlock is astounded by how easily these strange words come out of his mouth. _God._ He’s never said anything that forward in his entire _life,_ and he’s not entirely sure whether he’s just acting anymore.

Finally, _finally,_ John moves: he wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s upper arms, and Sherlock’s flesh explodes into goosebumps at the contact as a shiver shoots down his spine. He expects something to come from it, from John, from John suddenly _touching him_ —but heartbreakingly, John moves away.

His fingers trail down Sherlock’s arms as he puts distance between them. A foot, two, two and a half. Sherlock is cold again.  

John meets Sherlock’s eyes, his expression authentically kind, and—oh, _god_. Laced with nothing other than an apology.

“Erm, Cedric,” he says. “I’m very flattered, really. You’re an incredibly attractive man, but—I’m only here because my sister forced me to come. I’m not really looking for any type of relationship. I’m much too busy with my work at the moment.”

Sherlock’s heart plummets. He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, all the air flying out of him. He stares back at John, who smiles at him sweetly, his own face blank. He’d—he hadn’t expected _that._

Sherlock sighs, breaking eye contact because he’s too utterly embarrassed to be looking back at John right now, and promptly catches sight of the murderer.

_Thank god._

Sherlock sees him out of the corner of his eye. Slipping out the back door, hand splayed over the small of a young, tall, dark-haired man’s slender back. It’s _definitely_ the murderer he’d been looking for, and someone Sherlock recognises.

Hugo Marques, convicted in multiple cases of assault, and a suspected murderer who has been on the run from the police for over eighteen months. And he fits every description of the serial killer they are after.

Sherlock doesn’t stop to think; he says nothing as he spins and moves as fast as a bolt of lightning to the entryway, already dialing Lestrade’s number.

Sherlock tackles Marques before he can step foot through the door, much to the disdain of the villainous man and his date--and much to the surprise and shock and amusement of onlookers.

“Hugo Marques,” Sherlock says (in a voice thankfully and blissfully his _own_ ), “You’re not going any further. Scotland Yard have police cars surrounding the area, and there’s no way you’ll escape, so it would do you well to let go of this man and accept your fate.”

The young man, who looks even more daft than Sherlock could ever hope to pretend to be, snaps his head up and glares at Sherlock. “What’s gotten into you? Piss off!” he snarls.

“I’m saving you from a serial killer,” Sherlock snaps, glaring at the man. The stupidity level in this room is astounding. “But by all means, if you’d prefer to end up like his other victims—“

In that minuscule amount of time that Sherlock uses to inform the idiot that he could have ended up in the morgue by morning, Marques catches Sherlock off guard. He shoves him out of the way with both hands to Sherlock’s chest, knocking him flat on his back as he dashes out of the room.

Sherlock curses himself for being so distracted—he blames the half gin and tonic he’d been nursing since he’d gotten there two hours prior—and he sits up, dusting off his white trousers.

Why the hell would anyone wear white trousers by _choice?_

But before he even has a chance to stand, he sees what appears to be a blur of soft, ugly jumper and innocuous, dirty-blond hair practically flying out of the door, hot on Marques’ tail.

Sherlock pulls himself up remarkably fast, and he steps out the front entrance to find—

John, on the ground outdoors, knees on either side of Marques’ legs as he pins him down. Though Marques is struggling and cursing, John remains still. And cool. And calm. And beautiful.

“J-John,” Sherlock stutters. “What are you—why—“

John grunts and strains a bit, but Marques remains immovable beneath his grasp. “Pretty sure I should be the one asking questions, _Orlando,”_ he says without looking up. “But let’s save the niceties for once the police arrive, shall we?”

Sherlock can sense the biggest smile he’s ever felt spreading over his face, and his knees go absolutely weak.  

“Sherlock,” he mumbles. “The name’s Sherlock.”

***

Marques is cuffed and trundled into a police car with very little resistance on his part. Probably due to the fact that John, despite his stature and misleading attire, is very intimidating when he wants to be.

Lestrade insists that Sherlock answer a few questions that Sherlock doesn’t really pay attention to, but he has a viable excuse; John is standing off to the side of the scene. Red and blue lights flash over his face as he leans back against a police car, arms crossed over his chest and expression placid as he stares off into the distance. Sherlock wants nothing more than to approach him, and—and—

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighs, flipping his notebook closed and giving Sherlock an exasperated yet amused look. “Just go talk to him. I’ll be by your place tomorrow for a statement.”

“Yes, yes, tomorrow,” Sherlock replies over his shoulder, already bounding away from Lestrade and towards John as fast as his legs will carry him.

John looks up as Sherlock gets closer. His hands are clasped behind his back, his feet spread in a wide, strong stance. He smiles ever so softly, and Sherlock’s heart pounds.

“So,” John says. “Sherlock, then?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock says, extending a hand. John blinks at him in amusement, but takes his hand after a moment, shaking it firmly.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes,” says John. His palm is warm and calloused in Sherlock’s hold.

“Likewise,” Sherlock murmurs. “Walk with me?”

“Oh,” John says, looking a bit surprised, but undeniably pleased. “Yes. Of course.”

Sherlock smiles at him and they turn together, walking so closely on the darkened sidewalk that their shoulders brush.

Now that Sherlock is Sherlock again, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t have a false persona to hide behind, to pull over himself in case he fails and makes an utter fool of himself. The silence stretches between them, and Sherlock hopes that the beating of his heart isn’t so loud that John can hear it.

“So, Sherlock Holmes,” John says, and Sherlock almost wilts with relief. “You are not at all who I thought you were.”

“Ah, no,” Sherlock says. He glances sideways at John. John is smiling at him in a way that nobody else has ever smiled at him before. It’s thrilling. “That was rather the point. I’m a detective. I was undercover, as you may have gathered.”

“A _detective._ ” John says, his face brightening. Sherlock’s heart is lodged in his throat, and he stands a little bit taller. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d think John was absolutely _delighted_ by that fact.

Perhaps he is.

“A _consulting_ detective,” Sherlock says with aplomb. He bumps his shoulder into John’s on purpose, and he leaves it there. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, I solve their crimes for them.”

John is silent beside him. Sherlock risks a glance, and John is staring up at him with luminous eyes; his lips are parted just enough that Sherlock feels something warm begin to glow low in his stomach.

“That’s brilliant,” John says. His steps begin to slow, and Sherlock matches his pace to John’s until finally they stop moving altogether.

“You are brilliant,” Sherlock blurts. “I mean. The way that you… the thing, that you did, it was… tackling him, and, and helping me was. Good.”

God. Oh, god, oh no. That was bad. That was not good. He is bad at talking. He should stop. Forever, preferably.

But John is, strangely, smiling at him; smiling so wide that Sherlock can’t breathe properly. He certainly can’t look away, but that’s alright, because he really doesn’t want to. Not at all.

John is riveting.

“Thanks,” John says. And then, he takes Sherlock’s hand in his, and he pulls him closer, and he rises up on the tips of his toes, and he _kisses him._

And _oh._

It’s good. It’s better than good. It’s amazing, brilliant, fantastic—John is a _highly skilled kisser._ He’s warm against Sherlock’s front, and he curls one arm around Sherlock’s waist in such a fond move that Sherlock simply melts against him.

He would like to keep kissing John forever and ever, please.

John’s fingers feel good against Sherlock’s scalp. John’s lips feel good against Sherlock’s lips—and his cheek, and his forehead, the tip of his nose, the edge of his jaw…

They break away slowly, naturally, lips lingering and coming back together for a few small, soft kisses until at last they pause; forehead against forehead, barely breathing, hardly moving. Warm.

Sherlock wants to say, _Promise me we can do that again._ Sherlock wants to say, _I’ve only known you for three hours but I can already tell that I will be devastated if you leave._ Sherlock wants to say, _Come home with me._

Sherlock kisses John again, just a brush. Sherlock says, “Dinner?”

John laughs. He pulls Sherlock a tiny, tiny bit closer. “Starving.”

 


	29. At Least it Can’t Get Any Worse!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Harriet,” Sherlock calls out, his tone perplexed. “You’re crying in a bathroom stall an hour before your wedding.”
> 
> “Oh, there you go with your keen observation skills, Genius,” Harry retorts. “Nothing gets by you, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by FinAmour. ❤️
> 
> Not beta’ed, so apologies for any mistakes!!
> 
> Well, my friends. This is the last chapter I’ll be writing for FictoberLock 2018!
> 
> Thank you, every single one of you, who have read and given kudos and comments. I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know.
> 
> And thank you, above all, to my incredible co-author and best friend, unicornpoe. I couldn’t have done this without you. I’d never even dreamt it possible without your love and support and friendship. This has been one of the best months, and this conglomeration of stories is something precious I will treasure forever. I love you so much! ❤️
> 
> The final two chapters will be written by unicornpoe! Enjoy!

The day of Harry Watson’s second wedding to Clara is a disaster.

The ceremony begins in an hour, and everything is going wrong and all she wants to do is talk to her Clara, the one person she’s not allowed to see.

The floral arrangements arrived to the venue half-dead; the wedding cake is TWO tiers instead of THREE; it’s pouring sheets and sheets of rain outside; and the caterer was late.

But then, Harry gets a text message from her mother. An awful, awful message.

_Your father isn’t going to make it to the wedding. I’m sorry, Sweetheart._

Harry doesn’t know what she had expected. Perhaps, she thought, for once in her life, she assumed her father could give up the bottle for one day. For his daughter.

Apparently, she had expected too much.

So she does what any sensible bride would do in this situation: she excuses herself from her buzzing, over excited bridesmaids and locks herself in the bathroom stall.

And she cries.

She’d cried during her first wedding to Clara, eight years prior, but for different reasons. She’d had too much whisky, and she’d vomited all over her dress, and Clara had spent the good part of ten minutes yelling at her. She ought to have known, then, that it wasn’t their time.

She’s now been sober for five years, and she and Clara—unequivocally her soulmate and love of her life—have mended things, and are better off than ever before.

And though Harry may be sober now, she still can’t give Clara a proper wedding, not even the second time around.

So she buries her face in her hands, her body shaking with frustration, and lets all of her feelings wring out. She isn’t TRYING to create a commotion, exactly—she just isn’t overly careful not to.

And she ought to know, by now, given her brother’s choice of plus one, his wedding “not-a-date,” to be more careful about things like that, because she isn’t even in there for five full minutes when Sherlock Holmes bursts through the door. 

“Who’s in here?” he yells boisterously, and without waiting for a response, he answers the question himself. Of course.

“Harriet,” Sherlock calls out, seemingly perplexed. “You’re crying in a bathroom stall an hour before your wedding.”

“Oh, there you go with your keen observation skills, Genius,” Harry retorts. “Nothing gets by you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“But what could you possibly have to cry over? Yes, the dress you chose isn’t quite as flattering to your figure as it could have been, but if you’d only spent less money on the hideous tapestries, you could have gotten it professionally tailored, and I know that the string quartet’s second violinist is tuned sharp by nearly a quarter tone, and the rain is causing each guest to smell damp and—“

Harry’s had enough. She kicks the door of the bathroom stall with nearly enough force to break it down, and she can’t say she wouldn’t have gotten a great sense of satisfaction if it had. “Shut _up,_ Sherlock,” she growls. “You’re only making things _worse.”_

Sherlock goes quiet for a moment, an absolute rarity for him. “I—“ he says quietly. “I was trying to make you feel—“

Harry rolls her eyes and huffs. “You were trying to make me feel better. I know. I know in your own fucked up way, you thought that’s what you were doing.” She exhales a shaky sob. “But believe me, you didn’t do that, so I’d very much appreciate you leaving.”

And much to Harry’s dismay, Sherlock doesn’t turn around to leave. Rather, from beneath the stall door, she can see that his feet are carrying him closer to her.

“I _said_ go away,” Harry groans.

“Harriet,” Sherlock says with a bit of hesitation as he stops directly in front of the stall door. “I’m afraid I can’t leave a bride alone and sad on the day of her wedding. Especially not when the bride is John Watson’s family.”

Harry says nothing in response. Her wails and sobs have settled into small, wet, hiccupy sounds. She wipes her face with the heel of her hand—sod her expensive makeup job—and she takes a few moments to catch her breath. 

“You can cry all you wish,” Sherlock continues after a drawn-out pause. “But perhaps—perhaps it would be—I’m not so good with these things, not at all, but if you’d like to convey the reasons which brought you to this state in the first place, or simply—I don’t know.” He shuffles nervously back and forth on his feet, his large, polished black shoes squeaking on the tile. “I just know I can’t leave you here and upset.”

Harry’s heart flutters a bit at the unexpected kindness that seems to be spewing, unprecedented, out of the mostly rude and arrogant man on the other side of the door. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. She’d always known that, through his rough exterior, Sherlock Holmes, deep down, is soft.

She stands up and opens the door of the stall, and Sherlock—tall and handsome and absolutely flawless with his well-tailored suit and perfectly molded curls—stares back at her with an expression of nothing but concern. No judgement, no haughtiness, no irritation.

The authenticity of it drives Harry over the brink once more, and she again bursts into tears, flailing her body forward into Sherlock’s and sobbing into his expensive dress shirt.

At first, he freezes. No doubt thinking of the damage to his attire, and no doubt confused about what to do next—but after Harry clings to his collar and begins to babble about the flowers and the cake and the rain and the caterer and her deadbeat father, he slowly, slowly lifts his arms and holds her in a loose embrace.

“I’m—“ he mumbles. “I am sure it’s—would you like a tissue? I’m not—I don’t know what I’m meant to—“

“Idiot!” Harry interrupts. “You’re simply supposed to shut your mouth and let me cry on your shoulder.” She wipes her face on his lapel. “Think you can do that?”

He sighs a bit nervously before answering: “Yes. Yes, of course. If that’s what you need.”

It’s not exactly what Harry needs. But it will do for now.

“I just wanted to give Clara the best day of her life,” Harry says through intermittent sniffles. “And everything about today is terrible. Horrible. _Awful.”_

“That’s not quite true,” Sherlock says with his most logical, smart-sounding voice. “Perhaps you could try to...look on the bright side? Isn’t that a thing people say?”

Harry laughs joylessly. “Oh, you’re right.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Absolutely everything that can go wrong has. So at least it can’t get any worse.”

“Also not true.” Harry detects a hint of humour in Sherlock’s words. “There could be a murderer in attendance.”

Harry blinks and pulls back to look Sherlock in the eye, and, as she had suspected, his face is lit up with a mischievous grin. “You _wanted_ there to be a murderer in attendance,” she chides. “Because you’re incredibly bored.”

Sherlock’s grin widens. “Wouldn’t be the first time, as you know. But exploring the source of muffled sobs and whimpers coming from the restroom seemed to have been the only available distraction.”

Harry smacks Sherlock on the shoulder. Hard. He has to bite his lip to keep from yelping in pain. “Glad my ruined wedding is a source of entertainment for you.”

Sherlock frowns thoughtfully at her, and he purses his lips together as though he’s about to launch a slew of thoughts from that giant brain, unfiltered, through his mouth.

Harry doesn’t have time to stop him.

Sherlock inhales, his lips parting, and his eyes are ablaze with a certain committed passion that shows what he is about to say is inarguably _correct. “_ You say your wedding day has been ruined—“ he begins. “That it can’t get any worse. And I cannot fathom why you would say such a thing. Quite frankly, to make such a statement is an act that completely overlooks the obvious. The obvious, of course, being that the events you’ve listed have no bearing on the relationship between you and Clara, as your reasons for marrying one another have nothing to do with the weather or the punctuality of a food service professional.”

Sherlock barely pauses to take a breath, which is actually a good thing, because as he continues to ramble, he doesn’t hear the door of the bathroom as it slowly opens.

Harry’s red-rimmed eyes shift from Sherlock only briefly—which he thankfully doesn’t notice, either—and she sees John’s head poking in from outside. She shoots him a look that she knows he’ll be able to read: “Hush, everything is fine—“

John opens his mouth to say something, but he quickly realises that Sherlock is going off on a long-winded tirade of words that he couldn’t be heard over if he tried.

So instead, he stealthily steps his foot in, shutting the door behind himself quietly, and leans against the wall to listen as Sherlock continues.

“One doesn’t have to know you or Clara long, nor intimately, to see the reasons the two of you have chosen to get married. Again. Because the two of you have learned that, no matter what troubles come your way, you can work through them, and your lives cannot reach its maximum state of contentment and fulfillment without the presence of one another.”

Harry watches Sherlock silently. Sherlock Holmes, going on about love and sentiment? It’s perhaps the rarest thing she’s ever seen. And there’s nothing she can say, really, but she wants him to keep talking. 

And he does. “I’m not one who believes much in sentimental attachments, and especially not in the concept of what one might refer to as soulmates. If I were, however, to subscribe to any of these beliefs, I would likely cite your relationship with Clara as circumstantial evidence. What I’m trying to say is—“

He clears his throat and takes a breath.

“The two of you appear to have the type of relationship that many people seem to want, and many spend a great portion of their lives looking for. The two of you appear to be perfect for one another in every way. From what I’ve observed—your strengths and shortcomings balance one another out. You’re at your best and brightest and happiest when you’re together. You love and support one another fiercely and unwaveringly, and you put one another’s needs above your own in a manner that isn’t self-sacrificing. You have fun together: you share common values and hobbies and interests but you maintain your own identities. You’re the best of friends. You cheer one another on, and you make one another laugh.”

The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitch downwards as a glimmer of sadness seems to flash briefly over his features.

“Many people give up in their search because they are simply tired of waiting—and afraid of the potential loneliness and heartbreak they may endure, so they end up settling. Many people simply never find it—what the two of you have. Many more people find it and lose it.”

Harry finds that she is crying again. Only this time, the tears rolling down her face and streaking mascara everywhere are now tears of immense gratitude and joy.

Sherlock isn’t quite yet finished, though his tone grows somewhat softer and more introspective. “But,” he says, “the two of you have found one another—though the odds are astronomically slim—and then found one another again after you discovered the first attempt wasn’t the right time. And you get to keep one another. You’re allowed to spend every single day of the rest of your lives with one another, and you’ll never again be required to experience the joys or the sadnesses of life alone. And that—“

Sherlock freezes, his eyes widening a bit in surprise as he glances at the mirror. “Oh.”

Harry turns her head to follow Sherlock’s gaze, and there, in the bathroom mirror, is her brother’s reflection.

John is standing against the wall, but leaning forward the slightest bit, as though he wants to hang onto every word coming from Sherlock’s mouth. His arms hang at the sides of his immaculate tuxedo; his hands balled into loose fists. The expression on his face is one that Harry has never seen—never. And given how well she knows her brother, that’s saying quite a lot.

His eyebrows are furrowed inwards, his eyes slightly widened and glued to Sherlock; he seems somehow positively overwhelmed and afraid and happy all at once. His chest rises and falls in irregular patterns, and he breathes deeply through slightly parted lips. “Go on,” he manages to say, his voice slightly cracking, and he beams at Sherlock in a way that urges him to continue.

Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head back and forth as if pulling himself back into his own consciousness. “Yes, as I was saying—where were we? Ah. And that, as I do believe I have thoroughly conveyed, is the reason today could _definitely_ be worse; and why, though circumstances have provided a few detractors from your current mood, today should still, quite reasonably, be the happiest day of your life.”

Harry surges forward again instantly, embracing Sherlock tightly, and she thanks him again and again and again.

“That was absolutely the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she says almost gleefully into Sherlock’s ear. “I couldn’t possibly have said it better myself. And you want to know something, Sherlock?”

Harry lifts her eyes and looks up at John, who now has a fond smile on his face, and who may or may not seem to have some dampness in his eyes.

“Know what?” Sherlock replies.

 “You have those things, too. I’ve known it from the very first time I saw you with my idiot brother. And I envied the two of you so much for having those things, I damn near forgot that I actually had it myself. So thank you for the reminder.”

She leans away from Sherlock once again and takes his hands, and she has to stifle a giggle at the look on his face. He looks positively _shaken._

“Oh, Christ,” she teases as she looks away from Sherlock and back to John, who looks equally as terrified. “It’s time for the two of you to stop being idiots. Everyone, and I do mean _everyone,_ can see what the two of you have, and it’s every bit as special as what I’ve got with Clara. Now,” she releases Sherlock’s hands and leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wash up. I’ve got a wedding to attend.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nods stiffly. “Yes, I’ll—I’ll see you there. John?”

John’s expression changes immediately at the sound of Sherlock saying his name; it’s as though the sun is peeking from behind the clouds after a long thunderstorm. “Yeah, Sherlock?” he asks, his face glowing.

Sherlock turns on his heels and pauses. Looks at John for a moment. Smiles at him. John looks back. And when he smiles back, Sherlock takes this as his cue to take a few steps forward to join John.

He pauses again, takes a breath, and then John extends his hand to carefully brush it against Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s fingers immediately fold into his, and they weave their fingers effortlessly together.

“Well,” John says with a knowing grin. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and then: “Yes, John,”  once more, seemingly just to reiterate that he isn’t simply agreeing to walk out the door and watch his best friend’s sister get married.

“Yes,” John agrees. “Me, too.”

They stare at one another for a tad too long, and Harry, though immeasurably happy for the two of them, gets slightly irritated. “Oi,” she says. “Get outta here, you two. I need some privacy.” 

John and Sherlock lock eyes and laugh together before John grumbles something and waves a hand at her dismissively. “Alright, alright,” he says, not even attempting to take his eyes off of Sherlock. “I’ll see you out there.”

And Harry watches, her heart full and bursting with happiness, as her favourite man in the universe walks out the door, hand-in-hand with _his_ soulmate.

“It’s about fucking time,” she mutters under her breath, and she’s smiling so widely her cheeks begin to hurt.

She can’t wait to see her Clara and hold her and squeeze her and promise to give her forever, and it gives her immense happiness to know that her brother might possibly, one day, be able to do the same with his Sherlock.

Sod the tone deaf second violinist—this day couldn’t possibly get any better.

 


	30. Do We Really Have To Do This Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watches him with an unwavering gaze. It’s more intense than the one John usually gets on Wednesday evenings; usually on Wednesday evenings, Sherlock’s gaze is soft and happy and almost fond, edges worn smooth from a day spent with Rosie in a way that John finds almost irresistible. It’s only from years of practice that he keeps himself from kissing Sherlock on Wednesday evenings. 
> 
> “Hello, John,” he says in his deep baritone. John marvels at the way it still feels like silk against his skin. You’d think he’d have built up an immunity by now. “We are learning about bees.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3

It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and Sherlock is happy. 

Wednesday mornings are bad. John goes to work and Rosie goes to daycare, and Sherlock is left alone in their empty flat as the silence rings around him. He doesn’t much like to be alone. He never has, not really.

But Wednesday afternoons are good. John works late, and Sherlock gets to pick Rosie up from daycare, and she smiles when she sees him, running forward with her little arms outstretched.

Sherlock bends, scooping her up and giving her a squeeze as she laughs into his coat collar. She smells like apple juice and lavender-scented shampoo and the detergent that John uses to wash all of their clothes. She smells like home.

“Hello, Watson,” Sherlock says softly, setting her down on her feet and keeping a gentle grip on her hand. She tugs him out of the building, and he waves goodbye to the woman making sure all the children get picked up. “How was your day?”

Rosie grins up at him. Her blond hair is fluffed about her face in soft, messy whisps, and her cheeks are round and pink, and he loves her so much that he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, kneeling down to press a careful kiss to her forehead. She laughs again, and gives him a sloppy kiss back, smacking her lips loudly against his cheek.

He only gets to be this way around her when John isn’t present, and even then Sherlock feels guilty. Rosie isn’t his, and he shouldn’t behave as if she is. He shouldn’t love her as much as he does. He shouldn’t love her at  _ all. _

But then he’s never been able to resist her father, either.

Rosie balances herself on his sleeve, looking at him with round, blue eyes. Watson eyes.

“Papa! Painted pictures…”

The rest of her words fade away as a rushing sound fills Sherlock’s ears. He sinks to his knees on the concrete in front of her, and it’s cold through the fabric of his trousers, and—and—and he might be having a panic attack.

“Rosie,” he says, or tries to. It takes him three times for any sound to come out of his mouth, and then it’s too loud, and she breaks off sharply, startling and then staring in surprise.

“Sorry,” he says, hands around her waist, holding her close. She immediately smiles at him again, and grabs his nose with tiny, cold fingers, and he doesn’t feel better. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.” He stands on shaking legs, and picks her up, and he tells himself just to  _ breathe. _

He was so, so afraid that this would happen.

“Watson,” he says once he can be sure his voice is under control. Rosie is humming happily in his arms, pointing at objects they see on their way home and babbling extensively. She looks at him. “Who am I?”

“Papa,” she declares.

“No, Rosie,” Sherlock whispers. “Sherlock. I’m Sherlock. Say it, you were saying it the other day, love, remember? Sherrrr-lock.”

  
Rosie giggles, and covers his eye with one hand, and says, “Silly papa.”

Sherlock wants to rage at whoever taught her that, and at the same time wants to nominate them for a sainthood. He’s almost positive it was Mrs. Hudson. Who else? Sherlock certainly didn’t, and John—John...

Somehow, they’ve arrived at Baker Street without Sherlock dropping dead from heart failure. He gets himself and Rosie inside and up the stairs, pulling their coats off and stoking the fire in the grate and sitting Rosie at the kitchen table with a cup of water and a biscuit before he allows himself to really, truly panic.

John can’t hear this. John  _ cannot _ be allowed to hear this. If John catches even the slightest mention that his daughter is calling Sherlock  _ papa _ it’s all over. He’ll move out, and he’ll take Rosie with him, and Sherlock will be alone again, just like he always is, just like he always will be.

_ Do we really have to do this again?  _ he thinks desperately. He’s only just gotten John and Rosie back. He can’t lose them again. He  _ won’t. _

“Watson,” Sherlock says. He sits in the chair next to her and watches as she nibbles blissfully at her biscuit. Sherlock wishes that his voice wouldn’t shake so. “Daddy won’t be happy if he hears you calling me that. He wants you to say Sherlock. Can you repeat after me? Sherrr-lock.”

“Sherlah,” parrots Rosie, not quite a master of the K sound yet. She looks pleased with herself.

“ _ Good,”  _ Sherlock breathes, diving forward and kissing her curls as he melts with relief. The top of her head is warm and soft. “Now then, Watson; who am I?”

“Papa,” Rosie says, and Sherlock wants to weep. .

***

The scene at the top of the steps is idyllic, and John allows himself a moment to simply drink it in with a smile.

Sherlock is sat in his chair, long pyjama-clad legs stretched out in front of him on the carpet, bare toes wiggling. He’s slumped a bit in his seat, and Rosie sits curled up in his lap, one hand latched firmly onto the loose tie of his dressing gown; she stares, rapt, at the book that Sherlock holds in front of her nose.

“If you want to see an example of a perfect society, Watson,” Sherlock is saying, his deep voice barely more than a muffled rumble as he hums gently into the top of her head, “Then you need look no further than the honey bee.  _ Apis mellifera.”  _ He points at something on the page with one long finger, and she nestles back further into the circle of her arms. She adores him. “See the way they work together? Each bee has a job. A purpose. One cannot exist without the other.”

John’s keys rattle together as he steps forward, and Sherlock’s head snaps to his, surprised. Rosie looks up too, her reflexes a bit slower than the great detective’s, and beams when she sees him.

“Um, hi,” John says a little bit sheepishly. He must look strange, skulking here in at the entrance of the room instead of just coming in.

Sherlock watches him with an unwavering gaze. It’s more intense than the one John usually gets on Wednesday evenings; usually on Wednesday evenings, Sherlock’s gaze is soft and happy and almost fond, edges worn smooth from a day spent with Rosie in a way that John finds almost irresistible. It’s only from years of practice that he keeps himself from kissing Sherlock on Wednesday evenings.

“Hello, John,” he says in his deep baritone. John marvels at the way it still feels like silk against his skin. You’d think he’d have built up an immunity by now. “We are learning about bees.”

“I can see that.” John smiles, hanging his jacket up and stuffing his keys in its pocket before crossing the room and bending to give Rosie a kiss on the cheek. “Were you a good girl for Sherlock?” he asks her.

“She always is,” Sherlock says softly. His gaze is lowered as he looks at Rosie, smoothing back a few curls from her forehead. There’s something sad and reserved about him that John hasn’t seen in months, and John feels that familiar bubble of panic rising within him. Is he unhappy? Are John and Rosie too much for him?

“Sherlock—” he starts, not even sure where he’s going with that sentence, but Rosie cuts him off.  

“Daddy,” says Rosie, bouncing on Sherlock’s lap with a sudden excitement. “Bees go  _ buzz buzz. _ ”

“Good job, my love!” John says. “Did Sherlock teach you that?”

“Yes!” Rosie yells happily. She scrambles to stand in Sherlock’s lap and his eyes widen a bit as he reaches out to grab her hands. He steadies her as she wobbles on his thighs, and John looks on.

“That’s very impressive,” John smiles softly at Rosie and Sherlock, the two people he loves most in the world. One of them smiles back; the other stares at his own lap, and doesn’t make a sound.

“Buzz,” says Rosie solemnly, and John reaches forward for her, swinging her up in the air so high that she explodes into shrieks of laughter.

They fly about the room for a few minutes, buzzing loudly until John’s arms get tired, and then Rosie Bee gets to land on the sofa for a bit of a rest as Daddy Bee collapses down next to her. John looks over at Sherlock to seen what he thinks of the proceedings but he’s… nowhere to be seen.

John sits up from his slump against the cushions. Sherlock’s not in the sitting room, the kitchen, or any of the bits of hallway or stairwell that John can see from the sofa and this is puzzling, not to mention unsettling. He’s  _ always _ around on Wednesday evenings; he stands closer to John than usual, he smiles more, he kisses Rosie on the top of the head and tickles her and doesn’t look constantly on edge. He doesn’t disappear.

“Sherlock,” he calls as Rosie climbs up into his lap and squishes his cheeks with her chubby hands. No answer.

Bedroom, then. Must be.

John doesn’t usually breach Sherlock’s privacy, even though Sherlock never had any qualms about doing so to John. But today is Wednesday. And John wants to be near him, just for a little while.

Even though they live in the same flat, sometimes it still feels like they’re trapped miles away.

John stands. He hoists Rosie up onto his hip and crosses the flat, coming to halt before Sherlock’s bedroom door.

He knocks quietly with his knuckles, because the silence in the flat feels oddly reverent at this moment, and it seems almost sacrilegious to break it. There’s the unhurried creak of mattress springs on the other side of the door, and then Sherlock’s door opens slowly.

Now that they’re standing here face to face, John doesn’t really know what to say.

_ Hi. I just needed to be close to you. You don’t have to look at me or touch me or say a word; just let me feel the warmth of you next to me, just let me smile at you when you don’t know I’m looking. _

God. No.

“Sorry,” he says instead. He’s already shuffling backwards. John Watson doesn’t consider himself a coward, but there’s something so stiff and shuttered in the way that Sherlock is looking at him that he feels an ache straight through his core. “Nevermind—”

“Papa!”

John freezes; Sherlock freezes. Only Rosie seems oblivious to this absolutely world-shattering thing she has done, and wriggles in John’s arms, reaching for Sherlock with both hands.

Heart hammering, John moves closer on shaky legs and moves to place Rosie in Sherlock’s arms—but now, instead of masked and hidden, Sherlock’s expression is completely miserable. He stumbles away from them, one hand coming up to press over his heart in an unconscious movement John doubts he’s aware of.

“Papa?” Rosie says, reaching for him again, her voice tearful, and John’s heart breaks.

Sherlock flinches. “I’ll move out,” he says. His voice is a rasp. He’s staring at the floor, his thin shoulders up around his ears. “You don’t have to say anything, or do anything. I can be gone by tomorrow evening, and all my things out by the next morning, and she won’t remember me so you don’t have to worry about that, she’s too young, so it won’t matter that I’m not here anymore and it won’t matter that she—she—”

“Sherlock,” John whispers, crowding close to him. He presses Rosie into Sherlock’s chest and with a little noise of pain, Sherlock’s arms come up to hold her close.

John loves both of them  _ so much _ .

Before he knows what’s happened, he has one arm around Sherlock’s waist and one around Rosie in Sherlock’s arms and he’s buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, holding both of them as tightly as he can.

“John?” Sherlock asks carefully. He sounds terrified. John hates it. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t teach her that. I don’t know why—“ he breaks off here, breathing out sharply. John allows his fingers to curl into the fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back. They’re closer than they’ve been in a very long time. “I don’t know why she’s calling me that.”

“Papa daddy Rosie hug,” Rosie says. She sounds sleepy, and happy, and content.

John cups his palm over Rosie’s soft head as she burrows in closer to Sherlock. “Please don’t go,” John murmurs. “Please don’t leave us.”

Sherlock is utterly still; he doesn’t so much as inhale. John rubs small, soothing circles against the base of his spine. “Breathe,” John urges him gently, turning his head so that he’s nestled against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock does. He breathes in great, rattling gulps, in and out and in, and shudders in John’s grip. “I don’t understand,” he says, low and urgent.

John doesn’t allow himself to hope all that often. Not for certain things. Not for this. The three of them exist in a careful kind of harmony in this flat, and he will never disrupt that again. He wants Sherlock in his life; he wants Sherlock in Rosie’s life. He isn’t going to jeopardize that for a foolish desire—a simmering love—that he taught himself to live with long ago.

But this is different. This is facts. Facts that Sherlock deserves to know.

“You  _ are _ her papa,” he insists softly. Sherlock’s head bends to rest against John’s. “She loves you so much, Sherlock. She  _ worships  _ you. And you worship her too, I can tell. You are her papa, in every sense of the word, and that makes me… that makes me happier than you can possibly know.” John holds him. Holds them. “I’m sorry if that isn’t what you want,” he whispers. “I understand if it’s not. But I—I want you to be with us, always, if you are willing—“

Sherlock presses a fierce, swift kiss to John’s temple, his lips warm and dry. John looks up, locks eyes with him. Stares.

Sherlock is weeping quietly.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock, it’s ok,” John babbles as he leans up on his toes and brushed his lips across the wetness on Sherlock’s cheeks. “I know it’s a lot. I shouldn’t have—“

“John Watson shut your mouth  _ this instant,”  _ Sherlock hisses. “I’ve been willing to belong to you since the first day I met you, you utter  _ imbecile _ ,” he says tearfully, and then he frames John’s cheek with one hand, and then he kisses him.

John responds instantly. He’s been waiting for this long enough, he’s not going to miss  _ one second.  _ They kiss, there in the middle of Sherlock’s bedroom on a Wednesday evening, and they are happy.

They break away slowly; John keeps his eyes closed, a smile on his lips as he savors the feeling of being kissed by Sherlock Holmes.

“She’s asleep,” Sherlock whispers, and John opens his eyes to see that it’s true. His daughter is asleep in the arms of the man he loves, holding onto him with both hands.

“I love you,” John says.

Sherlock smiles.


	31. I've Waited So Long For This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is kissing him. 
> 
> A warm hand on his cheek, a warm hand at the dip of his waist. John’s sweet breath filling Sherlock’s mouth, his lungs. 
> 
> John’s lips, soft like a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by unicornpoe<3
> 
> Well friends. This is it. The final chapter of FictoberLock 2018. Thank you SO MUCH to every one of you who read, left kudos, commented. You all are truly wonderful people, and make me so happy to be in this fandom. I appreciate you infinitely<3
> 
> And thank you to my partner in crime, my co-author, and my best friend, FinAmour. You are an inspiration to me and to everyone you meet, and I could never have done this without you. I enjoyed the hell out of this, and YOU are one of the biggest reasons why. THANKS FOR ASKING ME TO DO THIS. LET'S DO IT AGAIN SOME TIME. 
> 
> Cheers!<3

John Watson is kissing him.

They’re standing in their kitchen as it snows softly outside, sunlight pouring in through the drapes, and John Watson is _kissing him._

“I’ve waited so long for this.”

***

_Three weeks earlier_

“Bored.”

John turns the pages of his book quietly; they rustle like fallen leaves as he stares at them. He doesn’t look up.

“I said _bored,_ ” Sherlock tries again from his position languishing upon the sofa. He’s stretched out as far as his skinny limbs will go, legs spilling over the armrest, arms dangling broadly. This is no elegant fit of boredom, this is no classy case of mind palace exploration—no. This is utter, sheer, complete lack of anything mildly entertaining. And John is being _hateful._

“I’m going to set fire to something,” Sherlock says. From the corner of his eye, he catches the edge of a grin on John’s lips, and that just makes things _worse._

“Your jumpers,” Sherlock says. “I’m going to set fire to your jumpers. The bland one, the puffy one, the colourful one, the stripey one. Even the blue one that looks marginally more tolerable on you than any of the others, and actually does your figure the suggestion of a favor. That one too. All of them. They will rise in a tower of flame and I will stand to the side and laugh—”

Sherlock shuts up, because John is standing over him now.

“Sit up,” John says, and Sherlock is so surprised that John _paid attention to him_ that he complies.

John sits on the place where Sherlock’s head just was, settling into the cushions with a book in one hand and a sigh. Sherlock cranes his neck and stares at John over his shoulder in confusion. There was literally no purpose to what John just had him do—

“Lay back down,” John instructs, patting his lap with a little grin.

Slowly, so slowly that John has time to roll his eyes twice before it’s over, Sherlock rests his head and shoulders on John’s thighs.

It’s… not unpleasant.

He’s still bored.

“Good man,” John says cheerfully. He opens his book back up and continues reading, and then, with an air so casual that the action can be interpreted as nothing but intentional, scratches Sherlock’s scalp with the tips of fingers.

Sherlock’s whole body _melts._

It’s _delightful._ John runs his fingers over and over through Sherlock’s curls, tugging them a little bit, feeling their softness, setting every follicle on Sherlock’s head alight with happiness.

Sherlock becomes aware that he’s moaning, and is horrified, and can’t stop.

“Not bored now, are you?”

Unintelligible noise of pleasure.

“Uh huh.”

***

John Watson is kissing him.

A warm hand on his cheek, a warm hand at the dip of his waist. John’s sweet breath filling Sherlock’s mouth, his lungs.

John’s lips, soft like a blessing.

***

_Two weeks earlier_

John keeps touching him.

It starts with that afternoon on the sofa, and doesn’t end. John brushes his fingers against Sherlock’s lower back as he holds open the door for him, John nudges Sherlock’s hand with a gentle smile when he passes over a cup of tea, John pulls Sherlock down onto sofa without taking his eyes off of the telly and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock feels like he’s going mad. Even more mad than he already is. He’s shaky and dizzy and flustered and in a state of total bliss all the time. No breaks. John walks into a room, now, and Sherlock can’t even breathe for want of John’s hands on him.

Even now, even here, in Lestrade’s dulldulldull office, with a fluorescent light flickering above them, with stale cups of coffee littering the desk and an array of grisly photocopies spread before them—even now, Sherlock is aware of John beside him. Hypersensitive.

There are about six inches between John’s chair and Sherlock’s. If John moved his arm just a little bit to the right, he’d be pressed up against Sherlock, the warmth of him seeking through both of their jackets and imprinting on Sherlock’s skin.

“What do you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock snaps his eyes up from the photos. He hasn’t been paying one iota of attention. “I think you and your pathetic underlings should learn how to do your own jobs,” he says snippily.

It’s a knee-jerk answer. A pathetic attempt at saving face. His cheeks burn. He wants John to hold him.

Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice that anything’s amiss. “Alright, ok, I get it,” he says with a put upon sigh. He stands, and exchanges some words with John that Sherlock stops paying attention to because he doesn’t care, and leaves his office.

John stands with a muffled grunt and crosses his arms as he looks down at Sherlock, a small smile on his lips.

“He’s gonna stop coming up with cases for you,” John says musingly, “if you keep being a massive dickhead to him.”

“No he won’t,” Sherlock says with complete confidence. He rises as well, which brings him even closer to John; he almost sways with the intoxication of it. “He can’t manage without me.”

John’s face does something soft and pretty and fond, and Sherlock’s heart and stomach very nimbly switch places. John comes forward on quiet feet and cups Sherlock’s cheek in his hand, just holding him. Staring at him. Gently, gently, gently, John strokes a path under Sherlock’s eye with the edge of his thumb.

“God help him,” John murmurs.

***

John Watson is kissing him.

Sherlock shivers, all the way down to the base of his spine he shivers, bone deep and hot and sweet, and he holds on.

***

_One week earlier_

Sherlock is very, very drunk.

He’s drunk because of _John_.

John and his wonderful brilliant beautiful perfect touches that unsettle Sherlock, that make him weak in the knees and the elbows and the heart and the hands, that take everything in Sherlock’s world and tip it all upside down, that set Sherlock on fire. He doesn’t _understand._ Why now why here why _him?_ Why is amazing fantastic kind gorgeous _irresistible_ John touching Sherlock like he loves him?

Sherlock wishes he would stop.

Sherlock never wants him to stop.

They’re on a case. He doesn't remember what. They’re in a club. He doesn’t remember where. He was supposed to have a drink or two to blend in, but then John had squeezed the nape of Sherlock’s neck as he left to take his post by the loo doors, and Sherlock had been so shaken that now he’s completely pissed and he doesn’t even remember it _happening_.

The club is loud and it is hot and there are people _everywhere_ , and Sherlock’s head is pounding and spinning and he just wants to _go home._ He slumps forward in his seat and rests his forehead against the grimy bar, closing his eyes tightly.

Someone touches him on the shoulder, and he knows immediately that it’s John. Sherlock sits up and slumps in the other direction, burying himself in John. He’s drunk and unhappy and confused so he deserves this.

John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Oh, hello, you,” he says into the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock realizes that John is slowly pulling him off of the stool he’s seated on, and doesn’t resist. He’d let John lead him anywhere. “You did not stick to the plan, my friend.”

“Did too,” Sherlock says. His eyes are still closed but John’s holding onto him, steering him through the club, so Sherlock stumbles dutifully along beside him. “Sat. Watched.”

“Got sloshed,” John adds.

Sherlock deliberates. “Yeah,” he adds finally.

“Yeah,” John echoes on a soft, breathy laugh. They’re stopped moving and John has him firmly by the shoulders, so Sherlock carefully opens his eyes.

Somehow, John has Sherlock’s coat. He’s holding it out with both hands as he smiles at Sherlock, and Sherlock lists a bit to the left at the loss of contact.

“None of that, please,” John says to him. He takes one of Sherlock’s long arms and works it into one of the coat sleeves before starting on the other. Sherlock stares at John and tries not to look completely besotted.

John starts on the buttons at Sherlock’s front. Sherlock hiccups delicately at him.

“Why,” says John, fastening the button right over Sherlock’s pounding heart, “did you get sloshed?”

“John,” murmurs Sherlock. It’s a question and an answer. It’s _what the hell are you doing to me_ and _you beautiful man, you life ruiner, you saint, YOU_ all at the same time.

John rests both of his hands over Sherlock’s heartbeat and stares up at Sherlock with his fathoms-deep eyes. “You have no idea how much I wish you were in charge of all your faculties and making wise decisions right now,” he murmurs.

“I am wise,” Sherlock insists. His head is oh so heavy and he lets it float forward, landing against John’s shoulder. “I have _so much_ brain,” he whispers.

John laughs. Sherlock thinks he’s probably laughing at _him,_ but he doesn’t mind, because he’s holding him, too.

“I know, Sherlock. I know you do.”

***

John Watson is kissing him.

There’s a supernova exploding in Sherlock’s chest; there’s a galaxy inside his heart. He clings to John with both hands, pulls him in and in and in and in, and John wraps both arms around Sherlock’s neck and kisses him.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” John says again, mouth moving over Sherlock’s lips in a way that sets his over-sensitive skin tingling. “So. Long.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out but a reedy moan. John takes advantage of his parted lips, tangling their tongues together and stroking Sherlock so tenderly that Sherlock sees nothing but wheeling white stars.

“I would have let you,” he breathes when he can speak again. “Kiss me. You drove me mad with the way you wanted me, John.”

John leans against Sherlock’s chest, forearms resting on his shoulders as he pulls back a little bit to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His lips are red and wet, his hair stands on end from the way Sherlock has been gripping it. He looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly kissable, and entirely pleased about the situation.

He’s staring at Sherlock like there’s nothing more wonderful in the world.

“And did you want me back?” John asks with a lilting smile in his voice.

Sherlock thinks of falling asleep with his head pillowed on John’s soft, firm thighs. Sherlock thinks of the caresses John bestowed upon him as they walked home from dinner, of the way he’d touched Sherlock with the tips of his fingers as if he was a precious artifact. Sherlock thinks of John buttoning him up, and hugging him close, and winding Sherlock’s scarf around his neck, just the way he likes it.

Sherlock thinks of ten minutes ago, when he John had come into the kitchen, and their eyes had met. They way they’d spun into each other, two orbiting planets crashing by chance in a vast and lonely universe. The soft reflection of falling snow in John’s pupils just before he had risen on his toes, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s and changed their fates forever.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says, and he smiles. “Every day.”


End file.
